Age of Mortals
by Sheitan
Summary: Following the defeat of Archimonde, there are still battles to be fought. EDIT: Finally, last chapter! Story is complete, but i will now start editing the chapters, and probably add an epilogue later. Enjoy!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard and I'm only gamboling in their universe in order to take over the world (or practice writing, but hush, don't tell anybody).

_Prologue:_

With a sound like the earth it self split asunder anew, the World Tree exploded, taking with it the unholy existence of Archimonde the Defiler.

From a high ridge, on the edge of the blackened wasteland that had been the summit of Mt. Hyjal, the High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind watched the glowing remains of Tree and Demon fall like stars upon Ashenvale Forest. With the death of the World Tree, so died the last remnants of a magic from the beginning of the world.

A grief to great for tears haunted her beautiful face, and her violet eyes were pools of pit-deep misery. Yet, her voice betrayed bitterness, as she turned to the Arch-druid by her side. – So, this is mortality. And all I feel is pain, for the forest, for our people. Is this anguish of my soul a harbinger of whatever time I now have allotted? Is this how it feels to have death coursing through your veins?

Malfurion Stormrage lowered the Horn of Cenarius. Already he felt the Horn's magic, so intricately linked with the forest, diminish. In to short a time, it would be a mean of making sound, nothing more. The druid turned to look upon the woman he would love for all eternity, however long that might be now. Her plight tore his heart, yet he had to make her understand.

"My love, I feel the pain as well, and it is good one. We are indeed mortals now, and will know the ravage of time, but we must never loose our empathy with the land and with each other, not wrap our selves in self-pity. If anything, we must live that much fiercer. We have won a great victory today. The price was a grievous one, but Archimonde will never threaten this world again. Mortals we might be, Tyrande, but never put down the gift of life."

The Priestess bowed her head. "I'm sorry, my heart," she breathed heavily. "I guess there is much to reconcile my self with in the coming times."

"There is, for all of the Kaldorei, and together, we will."

Quietly, Malfurion reached out and cradled Tyrande to his broad chest. Indeed, they would. He did not doubt that his people would adapt and flourish once more. Time heals all wounds.

The Arch-druid raised his horned head to survey the destruction of the land he had guarded for millennia, and suddenly, his ancient eyes widened in wonderment.

"Beloved, look!"

Tyrande unwound from Malfurion's embrace like a sleepwalker, and slowly turned her face to follow the line described by Malfurion's arm. At first, her brows furrowed, and then her face lit with a shimmering joy. – Elune be praised! she exclaimed.

The blackened stump was all that remained of the immense World Tree, but not all was dead. A single root, its vibrant green a glaring contrast to the blasted earth, snaked its way down the mountainside. And where the root came, the ground greened again, and trees sprang back to life.

Awed, Malfurion clasped Tyrande's hands in his.

"Hope is not gone, my love. In time, the Forest will heal."

The Priestess smiled, true happiness emerging on her face like the sun from behind clouds.

"Truly, it is a miracle."

Then her expression sobered. "Remnants of the Legion still roam the Ashenvale, Malfurion, and that hellish Felwood persists. It is to far from the summit to be healed by this magic anytime soon."

"The battle is not over, Beloved," the Arch-Druid agreed. "But we are still here, and Archimonde is not. Together, we can accomplish the impossible. We will restore Ashenvale together."

"We will –," Tyrande halted in mid speech. She had felt something, radically different from pain and sorrow. A kind of stirring, so deep down in her being it seemed to transcend her very soul. Like a current deep beneath the surface of a placid sea, it spread, yet remained unseen, Not unpleasant, the Priestess knew what this alien disturbance of her innermost meant. Even in the most intense heat of battle, there had always been a place in her clear as crystal, and cool as the Moon. Now this was gone, never to return.

"So, this is mortality," she repeated so softly it was nearly a thought. A single tear slid down the Priestess pale cheek, drying before it could drip upon the Forest floor. So be it! She absorbed the knowledge with only a sliver of her former bitterness.

"My love, we will fight for our Land as bears for their cubs!" she proclaimed with unexpected heat.

A great smile broke on Malfurion's face.

"Indeed! Now, I will rally our people and try to ease our transition. Though the sacrifice was willingly, the pain remains the same. I will trust you to seek out our allies and parley with them. We are no longer alone in this Land."

"It shall be done, my love. Starlight and sweet winds, till we meet again."

The High Priestess spoke softly to her tiger, and a second later they had disappeared between the dense trees.

Malfurion watched her passing with solemn eyes. He, too, had felt the stirring, but as he had walked the Emerald Dream for so many millennia, it was like reuniting with an old acquaintance. The Arch-Druid was intricately familiar with every aspect of the forces that shaped Nature, and he knew the rhythm of the lives of all creatures of Ashenvale, from the tiniest mice to the grandest oak. For all of these creatures, death was the inevitable outcome of life, except for the Night Elves. No more. The Arch-Druid sighed like wind through autumn-leaves. What ever would come of it, the Druid could not feel sad that all of his people, not only the Druids, would now feel the Pulse of Life, for that was, what the stirring was. Once more, the Kaldorei would be under Nature's dominion not merely by choice. His thoughts filled with the green of springs to come, Malfurion Stormrage walked down the ridge, the Horn of Cenarius lying spent on the forest floor behind him.

AN: Gulddæmonfyrstepragtøl.


	2. Riddles in the dark

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. They just chose the wrong back yard to play in.

AN: This chapter have annoyed the nine hells out of me. It's now later than late and I'm going to look like a bogey-man in the lab tomorrow. So I'm posting this just to get some peace and kick-start the story. Might revise it later, if I ever care to look at it again. Anyway, big smile

_Chapter 1: Riddles in the dark._

A single oil lamp, the small flame making flickering shadows on the heavy canvas, lighted the interior of the tent. The yellow glow reflected murky gold in the hair of a young woman perched over a frayed parchment. Dressed in a plain, woolen shirt and grey leggings, she matched the sparse interior of the tent – a stack of blankets serving as bed, a canvas bag holding clothes and a few personal belongings. The only luxury consisted of the desk at which the woman was seated, and the folding chair on which she was sitting.

The woman was staring at the runes etched upon the parchment with a stubborn intensity. She had been trying to coax meaning out of the arcane symbols for the better part of an hour, but so far only managing a dull headache. The spell it self was new to her, one she had brought along from Dalaran for what seemed a lifetime ago, but it should hardly give her any troubles, damn it!

With a derisive snort, she lifter her hands off the parchment, which promptly rolled back up, hiding the runes. Annoyed, she swept the tabletop clean with a quick hand, sending the parchment flying. It was no use. For the first time in weeks, she had any time on her own, and she couldn't even muster the concentration to break these simple runes!

Jaina Proudmoore pushed her chair back and rubber her face. The simple truth was that with no tasks to occupy her, less than pleasant thoughts kept rearing their ugly heads, impossible to banish. Then let them, she finally decided with a kind of abandon, giving up and giving in. As on command, the dark memories loomed high, to crash down upon her like a tidal wave. And at the forefront was, as always, the single recollection that carried the most horror.

Once more, she was standing outside of the ruined village of Stratholme. Behind her, the fires burned high, consuming the diseased flesh of the plague-victims. In front of her stood a man, his once handsome features distorted by all-consuming vengeance. Arthas, the golden prince of Lordaeron, and at one time, her cause for happiness. As a terrible army of undead overran his land, she had witnessed how justified anger turned to something dark, something that gnawed at the prince's soul and filled him with a burning, unbending hatred. With disbelieving shock she had faced the results of the bloody 'cleansing' that the prince and his loyal followers had carried out.

Searching high and low, she had finally found the prince, approaching him unable to utter a single sound. She had been hoping for that word of lament, of remorse, that would have redeemed him. None came. Even as the dead of his doing burned in the streets, Arthas had raved only about following the Dreadlord to the frozen Northrend. He might as well have said the end of the world.

She had pleaded with him to stay and fight the undead before the entire country was overrun. Arthas had called her a fool and worse than that, and had then taken off, his blue eyes blazing hotter than the corpse-fires. At least he cut her short before she taken to begging.

It was the last time she had seen him.

Despite the months that had passed, and all that had taken place in that span of time, the pain still cut to the bone. She had realized that the true horror was not the slaughtering of the infested citizen, sickening as it was. No, had Arthas just offered up one word of regret in the cause of action he must take, she would have forgiven him. At some cold, cynical level, his reasoning was sound. Even if a cure had existed, they would never have been able to distribute it in time to save the infected people from turning into undead, and the plague spread with alarming haste. It was the eagerness with which Arthas had undertaken that gruesome mission, considering no alternatives, that had chilled her to the bone - and still it went deeper than seeing a person she loved fall to evil.

She had helped bring twisted magic-users to justice, and once she had cast a spell of truth upon a droplet of blood to track down a demented man who killed for nothing more than the pleasure it brought him. However, throughout it all, she had sustained a fundamental belief in the goodness of humanity, that the deeds of light would always outweigh the deeds of evil. A prince had ended that.

Shuddering, Jaina lifted a shaking hand to feel the wetness of her cheek. Slowly, she wiped the tears away. How long would it keep paining her, how long would Arthas continue to hold sway over her? The sorceress sighed wearily. The pain seeped away, to be replaced by a hollow misery. Since she left to investigate the cause of a perplexing, possibly magical plague, her days had seemed one long, bloody battle. And still, it was the betrayal of a human being that clung to her soul like a leech, draining out her strength, impossible to shake loose.

Bleakly, Jaina stared at the yellow flame dancing at the end of the wick. She could snuff out that light with a single snap of her fingers. If only she could eliminate those memories just as easily.

She had no idea of how long she had been sitting like that, when a rustle of cloth made her jolt to attention.

"Enter," she called out.

The tent-flaps were pushed aside and a young, red-haired woman stuck her head in.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Lady Jaina, but dinner's ready. Do you want me be to bring you something?"

_Dinner?_ Just for how long had she been brooding?

"It's alright, Solena," she said, making an effort to sound casual. "I could do with some fresh air."

"You _have_ been in here for quit some time, Milady," the red-head said with a slight frown.

"Quit some time…" Jaina echoed softly.

Donning her cloak, the sorceress followed the other woman out of the tent.

Outside, grey twilight was vying with the dark of true night, and a few stars twinkled overhead. The cool, moist forest air washed over Jaina like water, clearing her mind and lifting her spirit a bit. She followed Solena to the merry fire that burned in the middle of the circle formed by perhaps a dozen tents, doing her best not to think of a different kind of blaze.

A group of people, all men, were sitting on logs around the fire, while two squires were busy carving a roast deer and filling bowls with soup out of a big pot. The smells were delicious, and Jaina's stomach gave a loud rumble in response.

"Actually, dinner seems like a very good idea," Jaina remarked with a small laughter. The other woman smiled. Then she turned to the two squires.

"Kerlen, Uric, you are doing very well. Now, begin to pass out the bowls." Solena's voice took on a sensible tone as she directed the boys. They obeyed quickly, used to the red-haired woman over-looking the domestic affairs of the camp.

Jaina sat down on a log next to a gold-haired elf in the robes of a priest playing a flute, and two men in chain mail engaged in a game of chess. They paused to greet her respectfully, and she returned the gestures. The elf lowered his flute and pointed across the fire. Jaina suppressed a grin. A paladin in a miraculously white surcoat and a dwarf with a huge scar down his face were bickering in low voices. Ennon Gemeye, so named for the artfully cut sapphire that had replaced his left eye, and Merrehen Gildhaft, newly appointed captain of the Silver Hand, had become somewhat of an institution. What had begun as an argument about choice of camp site, had developed into an argument for arguments sake. Jaina, as well as everybody ells, knew that the two were squabbling only to take their minds of their current situation. It also provided some much-needed entertainment. Everybody present knew it was not serious, everybody except one.

"Here, Lady."

Solena handed Jaina a bowl with soup, some bread and a hunch of meat skewered on a stick. Her eyes were on the dwarf and paladin, though.

Sitting down next to the sorceress, she mumbled: "I wish they'd stop doing that. It's going nowhere."

_Exactly,_ Jaina thought, but kept her quiet. Solena Gildhaft was four years her junior, little more than a girl, although a brave one. She had been adamant about following her husband north in search of the Oracle, in the process attaching her to Jaina as part lady-in-waiting, part chambermaid, and generally busying her self with the more mundane tasks, such as cooking. Jaina had accepted Solena's presence with some trepidation. It provided the girl with a place to call her own, but except for their age and gender, they did not have much in common. She had come to value the girl's practical sense, but Solena also possessed the fluttery personality often associated with noble ladies, and her love for Merrehen was like a brick wall around her. What Solena didn't like, she often chose to ignore. Red-haired, grey-eyed and pretty, Solena Gildhaft lived in a screened world that Jaina could simply not bring her self to destroy. However, she didn't have any desire to share it, either.

"They're not really upset with one another," she said soothingly.

"Then they should stop. There's no reason to carry on like that. There's enough strife as it is."

"They will work it out, I'm sure," Jaina offered, and began to eat. Solena still eyed her husband and Gemeye with unease, but she said no more.

Food, not agreement, brought about Solena's wish. Soon, silence had settled, as everybody wolfed down their meals. Despite her hunger, Jaina ate slowly, savoring both the food and the ease that she felt emanating from the people around her. All of the wounded had been cared for, most of the many dead put to rest, and the establishment of the new base camp was as good as completed. Things were starting to have a semblance of normality again. From further down hill, she could hear rough singing and roars of laughter. Apparently, she was not the only one of that opinion.

The sorceress sat down her empty bowl, and walked to the edge of the ring of tents. Below her the main camp spread out, the fires of the soldiers and commoners alike, people who had faced demons and lived to tell the tale. She supposed it did make a grant one. After all, it wasn't every day one vanquish an Arch-demon, she mused dryly.

It had been a long journey, to find her standing here. More battle-scarred, more experienced. Wiser, she supposed, but most of all, more expectant. They had followed the only road that seemed to hold any promise, and together, they had prevailed. She was desperately happy for their victory, but could not help feeling that the real work was ahead of them. As soon as possible, they would travel south, to meet up with the detachment, mostly commoners and workers, who had stayed behind to find a suitable spot to settle.

Jaina had no idea if the Scourge had fallen with Archimonde, and though she hoped Lordaeron was safe, it was not her primary concern. They would not be going back. From the onset of the journey to the west, she had known deep down that she would never see the familiar shores again. For good or bad, Kalimdor was the refuges new home. And where did that leave her? She had followed the Prophet because she believed in him, and she had fought because all life be damned otherwise.

In any kind of retrospect, the stakes had been higher than the celestial vault, the chances of success insanely small. And against those odds they had prevailed. The cries of the wounded had drowned out the wind and blood had been spilled in bucketfuls, but they were the ones still standing. As Jaina had stared shocked at the blackened remains of the World Tree, it was neither triumph nor simple satisfaction she had felt the strongest. It was the silence that followed the explosion, as if the entire world had been encased in glass, a perfect moment preserved for all eternity. Then the stars began to fall, and the glass splintered with cries of joy and pain, of anguish and mindless terror.

Compared to that, how could the forging of a new home, shouldering the responsibilities for all of these people that had followed her willingly, seem so intimidating?

The answer was all too easy. Despite all that had happened, the mantle of leadership she had donned, Jaina was a sorceress first and last, a student of the arcane. She had fought enough battles with her father, given up enough privileged as member of a royal house, to have proven that notion true. Even the Grand Admiral had grudgingly left her alone, and she counted that as no small miracle.

She cared deeply for the people around her, and wished more than anything to see them safe in a new home. She did just not want to be the person responsible for doing it.

She wanted to be able to read a spell-book again without being haunted by ghosts, she wanted this to be over.

Jaina pushed back an errand strand of hair and stood for a moment, listening to the merriment below. Very well, if she could only achieve these things by hard work, then she just had to work that hard.

She walked back to the fire, resolute, if not happy. The food bad been stowed away, and both Merrehen and Solena were suspiciously absent. Someone had produced a wineskin, and the elven priest was playing a rollicking tune Jaina recognized as a sea shanty.

"Did you pick up a few tricks at sea?" Jaina commented lightly, taking a seat. The elf put down his flute, and smiled.

"To pass the time, nothing more, Lady," he said. His voice was low, and still carried easily through the din of raucous conversation.

"Off course. Please go on."

Tahraidel Sweetbrook, high priest of Quel'Thalas, did just so.

The shanty was brisk and vivid, and soon a couple of knights joined in with a more or less improvised tune. Jaina declined the wine skin when it was offered, and simply shook her head when Tahraidel gave her a quizzical look.

She had just decided to turn in, when a soldier arrived and requested to speak with her. Rising, she shushed the officers with a sharp move of her hand. The chorus died away almost at once. A shame, really. It was becoming quit interesting, if a little unorthodox.

"Yes?" she said. The soldier didn't look to be twenty, but he carried him self with a practice that only came after endless days in mail and with sward at the ready.

"Milady," the soldier began, a little out of breath, "I'm sorry to interfere, but the elven priestess have arrived. She insists on speaking with your Ladyship."

Jaina paused for just a second, before saying: "Please, show me to her."

She had not exactly looked forward to this visit, or more precisely, what this visit would bring about, but duty seemed a great deal better than what looked to be a restless night.

The soldier snapped to attention. "Yes, Milady."

Jaina quickly informed the officers of what had come up, and followed the soldier down the hill.

"She's waiting at the gate," the soldier, Leroy by name, explained. "On her own, apparently, though I cannot see that as taking a risk."

Jaina nodded. The night elven priest had shown her self as a formidable opponent, and possessed a bearing that could make rock wither.

The sorceress and soldier followed a broad track running the length of the camp. They passed several fires, and Jaina noted Leroy's wistful glances with understanding. Guard-duty at night had never been popular, less so with the light-hearted atmosphere of tonight.

"Who's in charge?" she asked casually.

" Sergeant Joshue Vathenar," came the prompt answer. Leroy, apparently, was on his toes.

The name was faintly familiar, though she could pin no face to it.

"He's a very good commander," Leroy went on, as if sensing her lack of recognition. "But here we are, my Lady." That's sergeant Vathenar over there. The young soldier pointed discreetly, though it was hardly necessary.

The 'gate' was actually a rather glorified name for the opening in the hastily constructed barrier of logs, brambles and rubble that fenced in the new campsite.

Just inside the gate, her haughty calm a jarring contrast to an anxious-looking man that could only be sergeant Vathenar, stood an elven woman. Again, Jaina marvelled at the grace and vast composure these elves emanated. Mirroring every shade of dusk and twilight, Tyrande Whisperwind seemed nightfall come to life, and just as mysterious.

"It is good to see you again, Jaina Proudmoore," the night elf greeted, her voice soft, like Tahraidel's, and yet there was a world of difference.

"And you as well, priestess Whisperwind," Jaina replied. Her small bow was not a slight. Rather, the simple gesture acknowledged and summed up all they had faced, the grudging respect that had replaced initial hostility.

Still, reservation lingered, as the priestess said: "Have you come to a decision?" Respect was not all the same as liking.

Jaina nodded. "We have discussed your proposition, and we all agree. We will lend our aid…"

"I am eternally grateful for your decision, Jaina," the Night Elf said. "And I know how many of your men lie wounded. I understand your hesitation."

Jaina lowered her head.

"Tyrande, it was not to gain pity. We have _all_ suffered losses. I'm just tired of fighting, that's all."

With a fleeting smirk, she added: "What the heck. Let's show those demons who won."

"Agreed," Tyrande said, cocking an eyebrow at the human's sudden shift of mood. She would never be able to perceive the younger races' mercurial mindsets with anything but amusement.

"Have you spoken with the Warchief?"

"No. I went to your camp first."

Jaina considered for a moment.

"I'll go with you…"

"That will save time," Tyrande conceded. "Let us depart."

The Night Elf turned and headed for the gate. Jaina took a step, when a hand on her arm halted her. She turned to see sergeant Vathenar hover over her.

"Lady Proudmoore, you are not planning to go to the orc encampment in the middle of the night?"

Vathenar sounded truthfully shocked. Jaina did her best to hide her upturned eyes. They meant it well, but it was tiring.

"Sergeant," she began, but a soft, commanding voice cut her short.

"There is no need to worry, human. Lady Proudmoore will be well looked after."

As on cue, the darkness suddenly moved. Eight silhouettes, as slender and graceful as the priestess, stepped out of the night, each one armed with a bow and deadly intent. The transition from shadow to living being was so fluid and silent Jaina would never have noticed had she not seen it happen. The captain held steady, but his face showed his surprise.

"Any protests, sergeant?" Jaina said, shaking off Vathenar's arm. The man just stared, clearly baffled.

"That settles it," Jaina murmured. "Sergeant, could you spare young Leroy to inform the officers of my whereabouts? I'll be back as soon as possible."

"Yes, Lady," the man answered, surly.

"Sergeant, even alone, I can hold up my own," Jaina said with some exasperation. She swirled, the arcane symbols on her cloak glittering even in the faint light of the torches.

Soon, the darkness had swallowed up both night elves and human sorceress. The guard that had escorted Jaina turned to the sergeant.

"I really don't know who's most daunting, that priestess or miss Proudmoore."

The sergeant gave a snort. "_I_ know."


	3. Great Where are we going?

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. Now, back to the mine, slaves!

AN: Bigger is better, right? Having gotten my hands on Lord of the Clans (am I the only one picturing a certain orc in flowing shirt and tight pants doing the tap-dance?) I've let that be the backdrop for my story. I had a problem with Snowsong, though. No where in the book is she described as big enough to carry an orc in armor, and trust me, that gotta be a big one. So I upgraded Snowsong to 'small horse' and disregarded the black wolf in the game. Who cares, anyway? Bite me!

I got two – 2! - reviewers: Thanks, guys! And see, I've changed the – to "". Hope it makes it easier to read

_Chapter 2: Great. Where are we going?_

Snowsong was not happy. The huge wolf prowled back and forth, tail sweeping the ground and her ears flattened against her head. The orcish work crew did their best to ignore her - the sun had nearly sunk beneath the imposing green wall that was Ashenvale Forest, leaving preciously little time to complete the guard tower. The presence of an ill-tempered wolf the size of a small horse was enough to unnerve even a seasoned orcish warrior, though.

Then a worker accidentally got to close. With a menacing growl, Snowsong lunged at the orc, who dropped his load of timber and jumped back, knocking over two other orcs holding a support beam. The whole tower shook dangerously, eliciting shouts of shock and fright from the workers on the tower platform. Bellowing orders at the top of his lungs, the ganger, a grizzly old orc lacking his left hand, came storming in. Onrushing orcs tried to steady the tower, while the worker responsible for the whole mess beat a hasty retreat. In the ensuing chaos, Thrall had to call twice, before Snowsong reluctantly, and still snarling, padded over to him.

"Would you behave?" he scolded. Snowsong's yellow eyes contracted to slits, but she did perk up her ears. With a final growl, she flopped down at her belly at his feet.

Scowling, the ganger came back.

"Damn rabbit-hearts," he muttered, gnashing his teeth. "And damn wolf."

Thrall let out a chuckle. He would never have tolerated that comment from a younger warrior, but Korl was a veteran, and well past brashness and boot-licking. He merely wanted to get the job done, with as few obstacles as possible.

And he _had_ been careless. Snowsong had grown progressively more anxious over the last few days, and the tantalizing closeness of the unspoiled Forest had turned the wolf into one big bundle of frustrations. He understood her behavior perfectly, but she might draw blood the next time.

"Soon, I promise," he whispered, stroking his companion's soft fur.

Thrall turned his attention back to the rough map sketched on the ground. A number of X's marked the positions of planned guard towers along the camp perimeter. Korl pointed to one of the X's.

"We'll have this one done by nightfall, Warchief. This one might prove a problem, though. Lots of loose rocks."

"Too much trouble?"

Korl shrugged. "Depends, Warchief. It's a rather steep angle, but it can be scaled, and with wings… I guess a couple of trolls up in a tree could cover the position just as well."

He shrugged again. "Give me and the boys a day and a half, and we'll have it up. As I said, it depends."

"A day and a half," Thrall mused. "Very well, do it."

The old orc gave Thrall a shrewd look. "Not leaving right away, are we?"

"No," Thrall admitted.

"That's good. Can't keep the boys busy with log-hauling forever," Korl said with gruff satisfaction.

That was the heart of it, Thrall silently admitted. He had set his men fortifying the camp both out of necessity – no sane orc would go to sleep without proper defenses - and to prevent boredom. After weeks and months of constant warfare, the warriors suddenly had plenty of time on their hands. So far, it hadn't come to blows, but it was only a matter of time. Combine the renewed energy of the Horde with the fact that the Clan hierarchies were in shambles and in fighting was unavoidable. He had made it very clear that bloodshed was not tolerated, but under these circumstances, tempers were sure to boil, ban or not.

He almost looked forward to go demon hunting.

Thrall gave the older orc a nod of affirmation. "Go ahead, and add those trenches you mentioned. I want no uninvited guests."

"Sure we don't," Korl said with a grin that contradicted his words rather heavily.

Suddenly, Snowsong got up, and issued a thin sound that spoke of deadly intent, nothing like her earlier venting of frustrations. Thrall placed a restraining hand on Snowsong's flank and turned. Predictably, a huge, grey shadow appeared around an outcropping of rocks at the mouth of the gully leading back to camp. It was a huge wolf with an orcish warrior on its back. The wolf rider steered his mount up the slope and halted in front of Thrall.

"Warchief," he said, "I have a message from the Elder. He requires your presence. Another one."

As disheartening as the message was, Thrall found it a bit peculiar that the Elder asked for him. He had seen more than enough cases to leave the sight burned into his mind.

"Thanks, Gel'dresh," he said. "Tell the Elder I'll be there right away."

Gel'dresh saluted and urged his wolf back towards the ravine, followed by Snowsong's low growl.

"Manners, my friend," Thrall said. Snowsong had never accepted the wolves of Kalimdor that had allied with the Horde. The Frostwolves had ridden wolves into battle back on Draenor, but in Azeroth few wolves grew big enough to carry an orcish warrior. The pact the Horde had made with these wolves was not the true bond that existed between Thrall and Snowsong. It was by the will of the Spirits that these wolves combine their strength and ferocity with the Horde's cunning and weapons. Thrall had assigned veteran Frostwolves to pick out and train the new wolf-riders. It required a healthy dose of willpower and guts to manage the beasts, and more than one orc bore deep teeth marks. However, a balance had quickly been reached, and the wolf-riders had become a fearsome fighting force.

"Korl, if you have any problems, let me know," he said, and headed back down the slope. Snowsong trotted after him, a white shadow against the blackened earth.

The ground in the narrow gully that led back to camp was a morass, wetted with so much blood the air still reeked of iron, evidence of the deadly battle that had raged here. The gully had proven an achingly simple trap. The demons had rushed in, mindless in their fury and it had been easy to bombard them from above. Rushing in and pinning the orcs that had lured them against the rocks that blocked the end of the gully. Not one of the brave warriors had survived. But it had not been a meaningless death. Every warrior had fought bravely and unselfishly. They had not died in vain, not for some aimless crusade or as slaves to an unnatural bloodlust. They died with honor. As true warriors. And so it had been worth the price.

Thrall gave the guards a curt greeting as he exited the gully and walked towards the centre of the camp and the crude shelters that housed the wounded.

He found Drek'Thar hunched over the still form of a male orc, lying on a bedding of fur and pine-boughs. Thrall took one look at the orc, and clenched his teeth. The uneven breathing, the yellowish skin and the occasional spasm of pain, the horrible lack of vitality. He had not doubted the truth of the message, yet one could always hope…

"Ah, Warchief, I am glad you are here so soon." Drek'Thar might be frail with age, his face wrinkled and his teeth broken and yellowed, but his blind eyes glinted with keen intelligence.

"I'd never disregard your bidding, Elder," Thrall replied sincerely, using the title that had become synonymous for the old Shaman. He revered the ancient Shaman that had taught him the ways of the Elements highly. It was humans that held the strange notion that titles overruled wisdom. He might be Warchief, but that did not give him the right to act out of place.

"Noted," Drek'Thar said tersely, his voice betraying the anger Thrall felt.

"How long time?"

"As with the rest – a matter of hours.

Drek'thar paused.

"Thrall, I did not call you here for something as fruitless as watching another one waist away. This warrior's name is Marog, son of Mauk, son of Jarohcaz, of the Warsong Clan."

At the mentioning of the Warsong Clan, Thrall involuntarily flinched. Another dilemma not dealt with. The survivors of that ill-fated Clan had fought harder, more reckless, than any others after being freed from the demonic influence, and yet each of them had guilt stamped upon their faces. To Thrall, it seemed the Warsong warriors all wished for a chance to redeem them selves as Grom Hellscream had done. If he had the time, he would personally shake each and every one, to get into their thick heads that there were other ways to regain honour than sacrificing their lives. He didn't have the time, so he had to content himself with roaring a few harsh orders to try and keep them in line.

It appeared that Marog was not going to ease his trouble.

"Before his mind clouded, Marog asked for a warrior's death. I have asked the Spirits for guidance, and They judge it fitting.

The Shaman's white orbs bore into Thrall's blue ones.

"Thrall, you must carry out his wish."

Thrall could only stare bewildered at the Elder, as the words sank in. He knew that orcish culture endorsed taking lives if the cause was just. When Drek'thar had told him, as part of his education, he had absorbed the knowledge as harshly logical, a product of harsh living conditions. It was something vastly different to be asked to do it.

A sudden pain brought him to sharp attention. Drek'thar had grabbed his arm, the ragged nails cutting into his skin.

"This is not a test, Thrall. Not a way of judging your worth. The Spirits have spoken, and we, their humble servants, must do their will. Nature does not deal in good and evil, only right or wrong. Feeding the Clan or defending the young ones, granting a warrior death by the blade, it is all the same. It is the right thing to do. It is not murder."

Thrall curled his lips in shame. Drek'thar had read his thoughts as an open book. He had reacted to the request as a human might do.

"It is hard," he admitted.

Drek'thar released his arm. "Then it is as it should be," the ancient Shaman said with satisfaction.

His voice softened. "The Spirits do ask hard things of us, but they do not ask for coldness. Open your heart and make Marog's pain your own. It is the right thing."

From his robes Drek'thar withdraw a long, slender dagger, polished steel with a bone handle. No symbols marred the simple beauty of the weapon, or distracted the mind from the simple purpose of it.

Taking the dagger from the Shaman's hand, Thrall hesitated only briefly, to whisper a prayer, before raising the shining blade and bring it down like a stab of lightning.

It was dark when Thrall walked into the Frostwolves campsite. The Warchief's grim expression quickly silenced the friendly greetings and made the other orcs beat a hasty retreat as he made his way to the central fire. Sitting down heavily on a log, Thrall briefly noticed three younger orcs lounging at the fire.

Tentatively, he lifted one hand and regarded it like it was a strange thing. He had taken the life of another orc with this hand, not in battle, but while he lay helpless before him. The blessing of the Spirits had followed the dagger downwards and he had felt peace wash over Marog's being as he was being released from suffering. But despite all of this, a tiny voice kept whispering 'murder' in his ear, and h could not subdue it.

Angrily, Thrall tightened his hand into a fist and growled. Damn his human conscience!

"Problems, Warchief?" Startled by the interruption, Thrall turned his head. It was one of the young orcs, Grizh by name. Thrall's brow furrowed. The youth's voice was bold, almost cocky, and apparently his comrades thought so too. One of them said something that Grizh just scoffed at, and then took a deep swig from the waterskin in his hand.

Waterskin? Suddenly suspicious, Thrall got up and walked over to the group.

"None of your concern, Grizh," he said calmly, arms crossed.

"Well, good… then…" the younger orc replied, shrinking back. He seemed very aware that Thrall stood half a head taller than him and his comrades.

"Good. Now, what's that?" He pointed at the waterskin.

"This?" Grizh held up the waterskin like he had never seen it before. "I, it's," he stuttered, all cockiness gone from his voice.

"Yes?" One of the others punched Grizh in the back. Giving his buddy an evil look, he muttered: "It's goblin ale, Warchief."

"Goblin ale? And where did you get that?"

Grizh swallowed, but held his ground. "Earlier… a band of those little pests snug in. We traded some of the stuff we found in that old ruin." He made a dismissive movement with his hand.

"And the soul of your firstborn, no doubt," Thrall snorted. The youth had just admitted pilfering from one of the nearby elvish ruins, despite his direct orders to leave the ancient buildings alone. Right now, though, the primary concern was to find out how much more ale was soaking the camp.

"Do you know of anybody else that traded with the goblins?" he asked, pinning Grizh with a sharp look.

Grizh never got a chance to answer. The lanky shape of a troll appeared next to the fire, bluish skin turned golden by the flames.

"Warchief," he rasped. "Two women have come to see you. Elf priestess and that slip of a human. They insisted on coming here."

"Show them in." Thrall snatched the waterskin from Grizh and gave him a warning eye - _I'll get back to you. _The youth scrambled for cover like a frightened rabbit, and Thrall turned his attention to the two women walking towards the fire.

They were roughly of the same height, but there was a world of difference in their appearances. Tyrande Whisperwind appeared to be more shadow than flesh and slender as a willow. He was not deceived, though. Tangling with this one was like grabbing a piece of glass. She would cut to the bone. Jaina Proudmoore was wrapped in a long robe, face obscured by her hood and shoulders slumped. Her presence puzzled him a bit, especially because she seemed distant, preoccupied

Respectful greetings were exchanged, and Thrall offered them a seat, primitive as it was.

Proudmoore sat down. Tyrande, however, remained standing. Thrall carefully lowered him self to a seat as well.

"Warchief, I am glad you and your warriors seem to be in good health," the night elf said courteously, with a trace of warmth that revealed the grudging respect the proud priestess acknowledged these strangers in her land.

"But I have not come to exchange pleasantries. The enemy is gaining strength by the moment. What do you say?"

Thrall had to conceal a grin. Proud _and_ predictable.

Jaina Proudmoore raised her head and pushed her hood back.

"The Horde is ready to fight once more, priestess," Thrall growled, all mirth forgotten. "I'll rather die than allow any demons to roam free." He spat at the ground for emphasis

"Until the last one is run into the ground," Tyrande murmured in agreement. Thrall inadvertently caught Jaina Proudmoore's gaze. He quickly broke the contact. He had seen his own dark memories reflected in her eyes, mixed with something disturbingly like pity.

"Still allies," the sorceress said quietly.

"Yes," Tyrande went on. "There is no time to waist. The remnants of the Legion have death long overdue!" The priestess voice rang with righteous steel that Thrall suspected capable of stirring stones to battle.

"Do you have any knowledge of where the surviving demons fled to?

"I have only a strong suspicion," Tyrande confessed. "My Sentinels have scoured the upper reaches of the Forests, and the eastern slopes, encountering nothing more than dead bodies and injured, easily dispatched. But we did find numerous trails, all leading towards the Felwood. It is the heart of the corruption that plagues Ashenvale. A hellish place, twisted into a parody of life." The priestess' voice had become an abyss of bitterness. "It is the place where Illidan betrayer his people.

"Illidan?" Thrall dared.

"It is a long story, not to be told here," Tyrande cut him short. Thrall wisely did not delve deeper.

"No natural life persists in the Felwood, so the demons would be able to lick their wounds in peace."

"You haven't ventured into these Felwoods? Jaina Proudmoore asked.

Tyrande gave the human a long stare. "Just going near that place is like having flames poured down your throat," she whispered harshly.

"I'm sorry." The sorceress shook her head remorsefully.

"You did not now of it," Tyrande said. "You do not share our bond with the Forest. So, once more, the Kaldorei must rely on strangers." Her disquiet was plain.

"It is not begging, priestess," Thrall said ruefully. "It is doing what is right."

Tyrande regarded him with fathomless eyes. Then she nodded, once. "That is the truth, Warchief. By Elune, I am being ungrateful."

"I have lost my homeland," Jaina Proudmoore murmured. "I understand how it is to fear for your home. Tyrande, you have only done as you had to."

"I thank you for your kindness," the night elf replied softly. For a moment, she gazed at the stars wheeling overhead, then her posture relaxed and she said: "I suggest we meet tomorrow at dawn in the clearing outside the human encampment. Far from this –" she made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the entire camp-site, and the trail of blasted trees and scorched ground leading towards the summit.

Thrall knew that the humans had chosen to move their base, away from the devastation caused by the Legion's passage. The Horde had stayed put, by the express will of the shamans, sensing the Forest's disquiet and sorrowing.

"Bring your officers and have your warriors at the ready. I will be there with the Sentinels." Tyrande finished.

"I have an objection to the time," Jaina Proudmoore interrupted, her face reddening. "This is the first night with a semblance of normality since the battle, and my men deserve a little merriment. I'm truly sorry, but I cannot promise to have the troops ready at dawn."

The elf raised an eyebrow.

Thrall would dearly have liked to scuff at such lack of discipline, but instead he had to silently curse both goblins and their customers.

"I suppose it cannot be helped," Tyrande said stiffly. "Very well, noon?"

"I'll drag them by the hair, if needed be," the sorceress promised.

"Warchief, I will see you at noon. Miss Proudmoore, will you need assistance in returning to your camp?"

"No, thank you. I can easily teleport from here."

"Elune be with you." She melted into the darkness.

Thrall regarded the spot where she had stood for a while, then shook his head.

"Proud and predictable," he muttered.

"Very."

Thrall's hand was halfway to his warhammer, before he got a hold of him self. He had completely forgotten that Jaina Proudmoore had stayed behind.

"Miss Proudmoore," he said cautiously.

"I'll be gone right away, Warchief. I just wanted to have Tyrande out of the way. She didn't look – pleased – with me.

"To tell the truth, I might have to round up a headache or two, as well," Thrall grumbled, indicating the ale-filled skin at his feet.

The sorceress gave him a quizzical look, then smiled wryly.

"What a bunch of children we are, misbehaving when mother has left the house!"

"I'm quit capable of conducting my self," Thrall growled. "Unfortunately, children _do _misbehave. I caught a couple of boys with this. They got it from those little pests. So, just what I needed. A bunch of drunken warriors, with Elements know how many rogue demons roaming around."

Jaina suddenly looked appalled.

"Light, I hadn't given it one thought! The guards are in place, but if there is a rush attack…" She raked a hand through her hair.

The Warchief didn't reply, but his face clearly expressed his opinion.

"I know, it's damn stupid –," Suddenly, the sorceress broke into a huge grin. Now it was Thrall's turn to look at her quizzical.

"It's nothing – just, if my father saw me, standing here letting an orc get the better of me!"

Thrall allowed himself a close-lipped smile. He didn't know much of Jaina Proudmoore's father, but if he was true to the mould of a human ruler, he would definitely not approve.

Apparently, Jaina mistook his grimace for something else, for her grin quickly faltered and she began fidgeting nervously.

"That was not what I meant. I did not mean to insult you, only…" Her voice faltered.

"None taken," Thrall said curtly, hoping to stop the Sorceress' ramblings.

She didn't look convinced, but did change the subject rather hurriedly. "I must be going back, if something should happen, Light forbid! Noontime, tomorrow?"

"If the Spirits have mercy," Thrall grumbled.

"Goodnight, Warchief."

Abruptly, she disappeared in a pillar of faint light.

"Good night, Jaina," Thrall said, absentmindedly taking a swig of the ale. It didn't taste all that bad.


	4. A gathering of what?

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. Hmm, is that an orc in my soup?

AN: Another chapter filled with chitchat. Bear with me. Action is to come, I promise :P (and I'm soooo tired of juggling approx. 1.000.000.000 characters around.) I apologize for any typos, misguided grammar and misunderstood meanings of words. If you catch any glitches, please report them! It's a big help.

To my reviewers: 'bows in gratitude'. You give me the required kick in the to keep writing!

Kyn: Yes, I've played the bonus campaign, and it irked me to no end that Thrall just sat there, lazing off on his wolf, while Rexxar ran from one end of Durotar to the next! And yes – I'm _very _aware of their changed relationship… (Not Rexxar and Thrall's, or Thrall and the wolf's…0o)

_Chapter 3: A gathering of what?_

It was a bright day, the sky was an unblemished blue and the noon sunlight fell unhindered into the small clearing. Jaina Proudmoore stifled a yawn, glancing wearily at the small escort of soldiers. It was irony bordering on foolishness, really. The men were all looking prim and alert - apparently having heeded the orders she dished out when arriving back at camp last night - while she was blinking sleep out of her eyes. She should have gone to bed, really, after making sure the camp had been overrun with neither demons nor ale-hawking goblins in her absence, but instead she had fallen in with Tahraidel, and a very interesting talk about healing magic that outlasted the dog watch.

She stole a surreptitiously look at the elf. He appeared as pristine as ever, golden hair smooth as silk and his expression mildly guarded. She sighed. Well, one could sleep when one got old, which probably meant the sun priest had a serious nap awaiting him in a couple of hundred years' time.

Hopefully, no one would notice her slight. She had gotten more than her share of embarrassment yesterday.

Across the clearing, the two groups separated by as much ground as possible without it becoming open avoidance, the vigilance of her soldiers was mirrored by a half-dozen orcish warriors. The Warchief must have successfully rounded up all of the ale. _Just mock me…_ Jaina shook her head. She'd better drop the self-pity, before things got down to business.

Ennon Gemeye gave her a slight grin, as if he had been reading her mind. "Cheer up, miss Proudmoore, 'probly nothing to worry about."

"Light grant this is quickly resolved," she replied in a low voice. "Yeah, let's hope," Gemeye said, scowling at the orcs. Jaina sighed. _A semblance of normality, indeed_, she thought, remembering her words from last night Orcs and humans were doing their best to ignore one another, but the occasional look was less than friendly. Old habits were harder to kill than Arch-demons, it appeared. After all, humanity had been generally cursing the Horde for everything gone badly for the last 15 years, since the last war ended. The threat of a fiery, otherworldly invasion could unite the races, but it could not erase the memories of dead kin, screaming children, the destruction of homes.

It would have to change, if Kalimdor was to see any continued peace, but as she regarded the vastly different creatures present, she couldn't help but wonder how that was going to be accomplished.

Humans, elves and dwarves, the familiar faces, were more than capable of bickering amongst them selves. Throw in orcs, trolls, night elves and those towering bull-men, and an alliance seemed less likely to last than a sandcastle at high tide.

It was a dilemma for later, she reminded her self. Right now, there was a matter of demons to take care of.

The dense foliage parted, and a huge, bluish-white shape, like moonlight upon snow, jumped into the clearing. It condensed into a sleek, saber-toothed cat, mounted by the high priestess Tyrande Whisperwind. At the height of day, the night elf appeared strangely faded, like the sunlight bleached the color out of her.

"Well met in the name of Elune, brave friends," Tyrande Whisperwind greeted, her voice easily carrying across the clearing. There was a ripple of acknowledgement. The night elf dismounted and stepped into the middle of the clearing. Jaina did the same, followed by the persons of rank accompanying her; Ennon Gemeye, Merrehen Gildhaft and sir Tales Merville, the liason officer that ran the day-to-day operations of the camp. Tahraidel hovered at the side, present, but apart. The elf rarely questioned the decisions of his peers.

Warchief Thrall walked up to them, flanked by a fellow orc with a barely perceptible sneer, and two representatives of the other races making up the Horde. A javelin-armed troll, whose oversized teeth reminded Jaina of an eel-spear, and one of the bull-men. Tauren, she recalled, peering somewhat cautious at the creature. Orcs she'd gotten fairly used to, but she had rarely been so close to a tauren. Even hunched, the creature's muzzle was level with the Warchief's ear, the curving horns adorned with red bands and the brown fur dyed to match in strange patterns. Nevertheless, daunting as the tauren was, she sensed a calm, almost a gentleness, about the creature, installing trust, not fear, in the hulking frame. It was an odd contrast to the orcs' permeating zeal for battle, and it drew a slight smile. It seemed the Horde really had changed.

"It is good to see you again," Tyrande said, as they exchanged greetings. Was it Jaina's imagination, or did the night elf have a glint of humor in her eyes when she addressed her?

"I have grave news," the priestess went on, "news that very probably explains the absence of enemies in the Forest." Jaina's brows furrowed. Much as she longed for closure, Tyrande's words gave her a feeling of foreboding.

"This night, the Sentinels pursued and slew a demon in the woods west of here." "Pursued?" inquired Thrall.

"Yes," Tyrande said simply. "This demon was in possession of its full strength. The only reason the patrol was able to take it down was because the creature hurtled along as if deaf and blind, not deterring from its course before they cut the legs out from under it." A savage note of satisfaction had entered the priestess' voice.

"Doesn't sound like the doing of weaklings to me." Ennon Gemeye interrupted. The ambiguity was not to be missed.

Tyrande's delicate features froze. "Trust me, master Gemeye, the one of my sisters that made it back will certainly attest to the effect of the corruption." She paused, staring straight ahead. Anger was seeping through her tight façade. It was not aimed at the dwarf, though. Jaina recognized powerlessness for what it was.

"Sorry for the loss, lady Whisperwind. I meant no offence. Merely wondering," Gemeye said calmly.

The night elf inclined her head courteously, once more a once more a pillar of haughty composure. Jaina smiled a close-lipped smile. Ennon Gemeye was not one to let things linger.

"How does a single demon explain why your Sentinels have not encountered anything but weakened rabble?" the Warchief growled, the deep voice bristling with a barely contained impatience that Jaina found unnerving. Even in the heat of battle, her orcish ally had always displayed great self-control.

"My sister said the demon began to babble during the battle, like water flowing from a full cup," Tyrande said, unfazed. "It was in the language of the Twisting Neither, and she could recall only a few words. _Rot, runs deepest, water, hollow master calling, cresting waves._"

"'_Hollow master calling'?_" Jaina echoed.

Tyrande nodded. "Yes, and the demon's course was straight for the heart of corruption. It would seem something, or someone in the Felwood is drawing demons in."

The scenario implied by the simple statement made Jaina's heart sink.

"Whatever this 'hollow master' is, I fear it has been calling out for days, gathering the remnants of the Legion while we saw to our wounded and dead."

A heavy silence settled in the wake of the priestess' words.

"For days…" Thrall mused, his eyes narrowing. The orc didn't elaborate, though.

"It must be a creature of great power to accomplish such a thing," Merrehen Gildhaft said gravely.

"De Legion heeds only one master," a rasping voice interceded. With some surprise, Jaina looked at the troll, who grinned back, twirling his javelin with eerie grace.

"That's impossible." Gemeye shook his bearded head. "We all saw that cloven-hoofed bastard taking the short route back to Hell. And even if it is him, we might as well saddle up. If it takes more to kill him, we're gonna die anyway."

"True," Tyrande said after a moment. "Whatever awaits, it ends now." Her voice was soft and lethal, adamantium draped in velvet.

"Whatever it takes," the Warchief seconded grimly.

"It is decided, then," Jaina concluded. She flexed her fingers gloomily, as if warming them for spells soon to be cast. Those around her nodded their silent affirmation, and for a short while, a sense of unity permeated the place. _If only we can manage this when we do not have the threat of death hanging over our heads, _Jaina thought distantly.

"No need to waste any more time, then," Thrall said curtly. His bearing was tense.

"The troops are ready to march." Tales Merville raised his voice for the first time. "The Sentinels will lead the way..." Tyrande said, and then added cynically, "but remember, the closer to the Felwood, the less you can expect of us." The cost of the admission was evident, and they acknowledged it in silence.

The talk turned to practical matters, and Jaina stepped back a little, letting Merville take the lead.

A light touch on her shoulder made her turn. Tahraidel Sweetbrook had quietly slipped closer.

"Yes?"

The elf shook his head, and merely stood there, listening. When the discussion was drawing to an end, he made his way over to Tyrande Whisperwind, and said something too low for Jaina's human ears to pick up. The priestess stared incredulously at Tahraidel, and then slowly held out her right hand, palm upwards and fingers spread. Tahraidel reached out his left hand and laid his palm over Tyrande's, fingers also spread. Such joined, the two hands formed a star with ten points.

"The Forest will heal in time, _tey ishaval shunu'eiel mei kerah._

Tyrande smiled, somewhat bittersweet, and removed her hand from Tahraidel's. "I hope so… _vah-inu_."

"_Mashu'aval inubiel ti'veh adurierre shala'ither, eia-inu_" Tahraidel replied gently.

"I thank you for the words," the priestess said, curiously choosing to answer in words everyone present understood.

Tahraidel bowed lightly, and Tyrande returned the gesture.

With a soft 'excuse me' he walked back to the soldiers. A slight frown marring her beautiful face, Tyrande stroked the saber-toothed cat under the jaw, and swung up on the animal's back.

Despite feeling as she had spied on something intensely private, Jaina's curiosity was roused. The words were hauntingly reminiscing of the language spoken in Quel'thalas, studied by every aspiring student as the Violet Citadel, as it was the original source of all human magic, and yet she had grasped very little.

The one time the sorceress had mentioned the obvious physical similarity of the night elves, a race alien to the refugees, and the elves of Quel'thalas, Tahraidel had put her off with a firm hand. Sensing that the question disturbed the usually tranquil sun priest, she had not pursued the matter, and the turmoil of battle had quickly swept the issue from her mind. Now the questions returned with ten-fold strength.

The Quel'thalas had taught magic to humans in the distant past, and now this shared, familiar language of two alike races separated by a vast ocean. Magic, in all its myriad forms, was Jaina's ruling passion, and she sensed something profound here.

"If that is all, let's break up and prepare to march out." Thrall's voice tore her out of her reverie.

"For a successful hunt." Tyrande Whisperwind proclaimed. The night elf sat straight as a willow on the back of her cat, looking nothing less than vengeance personified.

"And for the promise of peace," Jaina added fiercely, the resolve around her gripping her and finally rekindling her spirit. Her weariness of battle had made her forget the infinite worth of all for which they were fighting. Never again, she silently wowed.


	5. It's the only way! Go in or go back

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. And I'm not telling what's behind that locked door!

AN: Another late night haul… When do I learn?

_Chapter 4: It's the only way! Go in - or go back._

Thrall left the clearing with such haste that his second-in-command had to half-run to catch up.

"Warchief?" the orc asked tentatively, sensing his leader's taut temper. Stopping, Thrall turned to regard the second-in-command.

"I have a lot on my mind, Nazgrel," he said loosely. He could hardly elaborate, when, he didn't know what the hell to do with his suspicion, except trying to quell the anger smouldering in his heart.

Forcing him self to relax, Thrall realised he had to talk with the one person whose judgement he trusted above all else.

"I have to confer with the Elder," he said slowly. Nazgrel couldn't quit hide a frown at that.

"That's enough!" Thrall barked. "Do not presume upon dealings of the Spirits!" More temperate, he added. "It will not be long. You are to take charge of the warriors, await the Sentinels and if they arrive before I do, march out."

Nazgrel blanched and snapped to attention. "It shall be done, Warchief!""You have my full trust," Thrall said, meaning every word. Considering shortly, he then called out to Brehkyn. The troll sauntered up, wearing his perpetual rowdy grimace, completely unfazed.

"Yeah?"

"Find that healer, with the steel-pins, Hai'khin, and tell him I want to talk to him when I return. Tell him it's about the – unnatural deaths." Thrall winced at the words, but there was no better term.

"Sure, mohn," the troll said flippantly. "Why, boss?" he added, as an afterthought.

"Later," Thrall cut him short. The troll grinned, unrattled. "Yeah, why not. I be finding him for you."

Briefly wondering if anything ever made a lasting impression on the troll, Thrall silently called out. The response came quickly, but carried a trace of reluctance that was only to be expected. It was a long time since she had run free.

Quiet so far, Tagar, Cairne Bloodhoof's trusted lieutenant, raised his head and sucked in a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

"So much green. Soothing, but I do long for the plains," the tauren rumbled. Swivelling his tufted ears, he turned towards Thrall. "Do not delay for too long, son of Durotan. I have need of gravel under my hooves, not leaves."

"You'll have that in no time, friend," Thrall said, detecting the good-natured humouring.

A few of the warriors in the escort suddenly hefted their weapons. The ferns next to the path was swaying, like something huge had just passed by.

"Stay!" Thrall yelled. The next moment Snowsong came trotting out of the brush, muzzle smeared pink, seemingly quit pleased with the commotion she had caused. Sheepishly, the warriors lowered their axes.

Pausing only to apologize for drawing her away from her meal, Thrall swung up on the wolf's back.

"Do not delay," he emphasised to Nazgrel, and then gripped the shaggy fur as Snowsong charged into the Forest at a headlong gallop, broad paws ripping the undergrowth.

As the familiar rhythm of the wolf's powerful strides settled into his bones, the recent events came back to him with a measure of composure, if no less frustration.

A score of his people dying, seven more dead, all in one night. Whatever this hellish thing was, it had picked up pace, like a wildfire prodded on by a sudden storm. It was not spoken of, but clenched jaws and rigid backs told of the fear when yet another one caved in, cramped up with pain and eyes upturned.

So fast no one could ask for a warrior's death.

Sho'kaig, a fellow Frostwolf, had fallen to the ground, gasping for breath, right in front of him, and as he knelt, knowing bleakly the only aid he could offer was quick steel instead of wrenching pain, suddenly – chillingly - he had understood something, far too late. Sho'kaig bore the scars of both wars, the first that drove the humans from Azeroth, and the second, disastrous one. Nearly all of the victims were veterans of war, and those that weren't, such as Marog, were remnants of the Warsong clan. No one, who hadn't tasted demon blood had fallen ill. And when Tyrande Whisperwind told about the demon-call, it had combined with this insight to a chilling thought he _knew_ was the truth. It had given his anger a focus. Much needed. He had come close to loosing his temper back there.

It had been a distressed look from Jaina Proudmoore, which sobered him up. It had been like a needle prick, seeing the apprehension in those blue eyes, so much like dear, dead Taretha's. He would be damned if he would allow the sorceress' initial tolerance to slip into biased fear.

Snowsong was kicking black dust as the entrance to the camp came into view. Thrall barely noticed the small group of wolf-riders at the gate, until Snowsong suddenly skittered to a halt and snarling sank into a submissive position. Cursing, Thrall regained his balance and turned his attention to the foremost rider.

He was shocked to recognize the hunched figure as none other than Drek'thar. The Shaman was wrapped in a hide pale as smoke, stitched with ancient runes Thrall had not learned yet, and he was riding a dark grey wolf with eyes like pale moons. The alpha-male of the native pack, which explained Snowsong's behaviour perfectly.

"What is the meaning of this?" Thrall blurted out, cursing his impertinence the moment the words left his mouth.

Drek'thar gave a hoarse laughter. "This, young one, is a leave-taking. These fine warriors agreed to see me safely off. And Gnasher here agreed to carry my old bones." The Shaman patted the alpha.

"The Spirits have spoken, and They say my presence is required on this demon-hunt. Why I do not know, but so it must be," he went on, calmly.

"I understand," Thrall said, bowing his head. Unwilling as he was to place the ancient Shaman in imminent danger, this was beyond him.

"Elder, I have urgent matters to discuss," Thrall began. Drek'thar held up a gnarled hand.

"We will talk on the way," he said. The alpha sat out a brisk pace, the wolf riders trailing after. It took some persuasion to make Snowsong edge so close to the grey male that the two orcs could talk.

Drek'thar listened intently to Thrall's words, seeming to fall into him self when the Warchief was done.

"So the past is not repaid…" the Shaman said finally. "Perhaps this is what the Spirits alluded to."

"Allusions, instead of clarity!" Thrall snorted. Drek'thar responded with a snort of his own. "Temperance, young one. Do you want to be led by the hand, the Elements to smother your enemies?"

Thrall merely stared ahead, clenching and unclenching his hand in frustration.

"It is fortunate, actually," Drek'thar mused. "Accomplishing the common goal will also put an end to this."

Thrall turned, his face set in a full-toothed grin. "By the ancestors, that is clarity!" With a sharp growl, Snowsong pushed forward, pulling the rest along.

The glade where the warriors had waited was empty. Nazgrel had followed orders. It did not take long to catch up with the troops. Heavy boots numbered in the hundreds leave rather distinctive marks.

Dismissing the wolf riders, Thrall, with Drek'thar, set out for the head of the column. Orcs and trolls scrambled out of the way the best they could to avoid the two mammoth wolves, the look on the Warchief's face promising worse than a trampling should anyone get in the way.

Thrall dismounted next to Nazgrel and fell into stride, the second-in-command quickly telling how a group of Sentinel had come to the glade, and told them to follow without further ado.

"Pale as a fish-belly," Nazgrel said with disdain.

"And where are they now?"

Nazgrel shrugged. "Stuck in a tree or gone fishin'. Who knows?"

"Warchief, I got him." Interrupting, Brehkyn pushed through the ranks, trailed by an exceedingly tall troll adorned with stringed skulls of small rodents and long steel-pins punched through each pointy ear.

"Vol'jin be curious," Brehkyn added. When Thrall assured him that he would explain to the Dark Spear leader later, the troll just shrugged and slipped away. Shaking his head, the Warchief turned to the pierced troll.

"Inquiring about the cramping sickness, Warchief?" the witch doctor said?

"Yes. Can you recall what you told me when the first fell ill?" Thrall said.

"Ahhh, the cramps and the fever, the blank orbs," the troll whispered eagerly. "I remember, do I, remember very well. No poison in the blood, no festering. Not coming of the body. And I felt the spirit trashing, like a fish on a hook. No natural, and no I can do." The troll shook his head.

"We should have known it, then," Drek'thar said grimly.

Thrall took a deep breath, the calm that precedes the storm.

Mannoroth's taunting, mocking voice, the horrible disbelief when the pit lord stood unharmed after his charge, and finally, Hellscream's mangled body, honour restored by the ultimate sacrifice. It all came back to him in a rush, causing not anger, only resolve.

_My brother…_Thrall loosened the Doomhammer and hefted the heavy weapon. "Spirits, I implore you for the strength to not let my people down," he murmured. There was no answer, but he had expected that.

They marched.

Slowly, creeping, the surroundings changes. Huge, bloated fungi grew plentiful, and the trees and undergrowth turned mottled and strangely uneven. The Forest fell silent, no chirping or rustles of small animals, only the occasional gust in the branches. Nothing more threatening than a few rogue furbolgs, too deep in their savagery to provide much of a challenge. The sad remains of the one time guardians of the Forest were easily dispatched. It was the silence, more than anything else, that crept under the skin.

Wearily, Thrall shifted his large frame to get a better footing. Once, green grass would have grown tall on the hill-side. Now, all that remained was clumps of swollen stems, bursting with the slightest disturbance and coating the ground in a slimy, stinking liquid, requiring some care to be put into each step.

"I never thought I'd say it, but I find my self longing for the scorched earth and lifeless trees," the Warchief growled. "It's preferable to this – this stinking madness."

Jaina Proudmoore nodded, gazing with aversion down the sheer rock wall into the valley below.

If Leleen had any reaction to this, no trace of it showed on her pale, violet face. The night elf stood stiffly on the outermost edge of the ridge, three-pointed moon glaive clutched in her right hand. Even for an elf, she was thin, skin tightly drawn over her joints, and her ribs showing through the leather of her snug shirt.

"The _Eiyah'thelessin,_ or Swift River," Leleen murmured, turning around. "It springs from the heart of the mountain, cool and furious even in the heat of summer. It will suck down a full grown stag in less than ten heartbeats." Thrall surveyed the churning, frothing waters more than a hundred feet below. He did not doubt the night elf's words.

"Is there a way across not including death by drowning?" he said wryly.

"Long ago, my people build a ford here, the only one for days around," Leleen went on. Briefly, the night elf's eyes lit up. "I trust you have your weapons at the ready, outlanders, for that path will lead you straight to the heart of corruption and to ridding my land of the last demon filth." Leleen, Thrall noted, did not seem to share Tyrande Whisperwind's reluctance at having to rely on the fighting prowess of strangers. He couldn't help but like her complete honesty.

Which reminded him: "So, is Whisperwind going to meet up with us here?"

Leleen turned back to watch over the valley. "There are other ways to cross the _thelessin_, if one is in possession of just a bit more grace. The chosen of Elune and the main host of my Sisters have already crossed."

"That's not the plan we agreed to!" Thrall disapproved sharply.

Surprisingly, Leleen's features softened. "I know, and I do – worry," she said reluctantly, as if saying so much to strangers bordered on disloyalty. "But priestess Whisperwind said she was – needed." The night elf ceased talking, her face showing extreme discomfort.

_Needed?_ It was too damn close to what Drek'thar had said. Something was looming ahead, and he had no blasted inkling.

"Then, let us not keep them waiting," he muttered.

With a small group of night elves leading, mounted on black cats, the allied forces carefully and slowly progressed into the valley, sliding and cursing on the steep, slippery incline.

The riverbank was rocky and slimy with algae, and when they got closer, the river it self was seen to carry a brownish-green tint, a dark froth forming were the water swirled between the stones. A sweet, prickly stench, like rotten hay, permeated everything.

"Ah, sweet waters," Leleen whispered, a deep lament in her voice.

Ignoring Snowsong's whining – the wolf hated getting her paws wet – Thrall walked to the river's edge. Tall post of gleaming white stone, untouched by decay, marked the ford, identical on either banks. He could only just make out the fitted stones a foot or so below the surface, so opaque was the water. It throbbed on the inside of his skull.

"You feel it too?" Jaina Proudmoore had walked up to him, accompanied by the young paladin with the white hair.

Thrall looked down at the sorceress.

"I didn't think a human could sense the Forest's anguish," he said truthfully. "But yes, I feel it. This river is a boundary. On the other side, the corruption is complete, no trace of natural life persisting."

"How cheerful," she replied dryly, crossing her arms.

"Yes, a walk in the forest," Thrall snorted. He turned and regarded the amassed warriors – his people mixed with humans in mail and plate, bearded dwarves and fair-skinned elves looking frail enough to snap between two fingers. When did things get so endlessly complicated? And so simple.

"Warriors, allies!" he yelled, his powerful voice carrying far in the still air. "We have faced demons and I do not doubt your will to fight, or your abilities to do so. The Legion came to Ashenvale Forest as intruders. In the Felwood, _we_ are the intruders. Demons or no demons, beware the corruption of this place, or it will sink its teeth into your innermost! Fight the enemy with steel and the corruption with everything else! On the other side of this river, never let down your guard."

He surveyed the crowd coldly, without the customary battle-roar. If battle came, then he would roar. Right now, he needed to impart another kind of readiness.

No one, no human, dwarf or elf, made any move to contradict his words. Satisfied, Thrall mounted up and urged Snowsong into the swift waters. Nearby, Jaina Proudmoore said something to her officers, who then shouted for the troops to move forward. Two Sentinels splashed into the water, showing were it was safe to thread, as it was next to impossible to gauge in the contaminated water.

Only a small contingent of soldiers were left, the rest of the troops on their way up the gentler slope, when all hell broke loss.

A faint rumble, like distant thunder, made Thrall tense with half-realized horror. He whipped his head up, to see the overcast sky take on a sinister, yellow-green cast.

For a short moment, all he could do was gape with stunned recognition, then he shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Infernals! Get your weapons out!" As he yelled, twin lines of black smoke streaked out of the clouds and crashed into the steep incline they had descended earlier. Like foul flowers, stone unfolded to rough, human-shaped giants, outlined in green fire. Mindless destruction and terrible power.

From his vantage point, Thrall could see the soldiers hesitate, and then turn around and run back towards the sudden threat. Others followed, though they had some way to close.

The infernals never paid the tiny mortals any attention. The giants began hammering at the rocky valley-side, causing great chunks of stone to fall, even as a knight levelled a blow at one of the infernals' broad legs.

An orcish axe deflected on hell-called stone. Then a third and fourth and fifth smoky ball rained down. One hit the top of the incline, the two others the ford, shattering the ancient stonework. As the infernals rose, they began smashing the causeway even as their flames hissed and slowly went out.

The earth was singing a song of shattering in his ears, and Thrall knew it was too late.

Kicking Snowsing into a frenzied gallop, he desperately tried to overtake the troops, all the while roaring, not a battle-charge, but orders to get the hell away. Most did, reluctantly. A few did not, running into the frothing river. It was a great show of bravery, and it was utterly futile. It was too late.

The river water rose into vaguely humanoid shapes. Thrall saw Jaina Proudmoore and two other humans standing on the brink, the air around them shimmering with power. The water elementals went straight at the infernals, water and fire clashing as steam poured up.

"Get away," he yelled, struggling down the call of battle. "It's no use!" The sorceress turned her head, a wild gleam in her blue eyes. "I know, but…" she yelled back. One of the infernals was down, crumbling to dust.

The song rose to a pitch.

"GET AWAY!"

On instinct, he reached out and dragged the human backwards, onto Snowsong's back, even as the wolf bolted.

The entire valley side collapsed. With a deafening, thundering sound, tons of stones, earth and trees came down, burying the infernals and every warrior that had fought them, raising a flood of stained water.


	6. What do you fear my Lady?

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. And yes, I know my RPA didn't show anything, and who cares that HERV-K18 analogs are not expressed in murine cells! So stop poking me!

AC (author's complaint): This chapter has been _far_ to long in the making. Due to nit-picking and involuntary convulsions each time I had to handle TxJ interaction.

Kyn: Thank you for the constructive criticism. It made me consider the way I'm handling our favourite green-skin, and I made a few adjustments. Still, he has a lot on his mind. And it's not getting better in the near future…

Son Kenshin: You, my friend, is not the zebra with the fewest stripes. Yes, it's TxJ, because that rocks. But I warn you, you'll have to wait until the end of the bonus campaign for some orange (have to make due, with Big Brother watching).

Dedicated to my friend Iben who asked me to 'squeeze the lemon'. Sorry, all that's gonna get squeezed is Jaina's ribs.

_Chapter 5: What do you fear my lady?_

Her cloak digging into her throat, as she was pulled roughly backwards, cut Jaina's protests short. The next moment a heavily muscled, green-skinned arm hooked around her waist and she was hoisted into the air and suddenly found herself straddling the back of a furiously running white wolf. She twisted her head, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of Zacharias and Airin – the two mages had been even closer to the river than she had – and water filled her field of vision, seemingly the entire river coming towards her. The old dread welled up, and she screamed, unrestrained and shrilly.

The water came down. Thrall's broad back shielded her from most of the impact, and the wild ride had put some distance between them and the river. Still, the force of the water, the sheer weight, threw the orc forward, pinning her, and forcing the air from her lungs, cutting her scream off. Icy water drenched Jaina from head to toe, and she could feel the wolf's muscles bulge beneath her as the animal fought to stay on its legs. The landscape careened around her as the wolf skidded and scrambled along, and finally came to a halt, sides heaving and teeth bared violently.

Jaina gasped, spat out foul water and sucked in a shaky breath. Wet hair plastered to her face, obscuring her vision and her heartbeat pounded in her ears like thunder. The old dread had been roused like a lion smelling blood and latched its claws into her soul, numbing her.

The iron hold around her waist was alleviated.

"Jaina, are you all right?" The deep voice, cautious and gruff at the same time, cut through her paralyzing fright. Craning her neck, she met Warchief Thrall's blue eyes. The orc towered above her, black armour glistening with dampness and broad-jawed face displaying a mixture of inquiry and controlled rage. In his own way he as intimidating, as powerful, as the flooding, and somehow, she managed to shake the claws loose.

"I'm fine," she mumbled, "everything's fine." A look of doubt flickered in Thrall's eyes, but he didn't press the subject.

Shuddering, Jaina wiped the water from her face with a shaky hand, and then her eyes widened. The flat valley had been transformed into a morass; pools of water and small streams still trickling back to join the river; stones had been dislodged and smaller trees bent and uprooted. She could see figures struggling to get up, and some that didn't move, piled like so much debris. She heard shouting and cries of pain, confusion, anger. Still, it was nothing compared to the changes wrought on the other side of the river. The steep valley side, down which they had so precariously descended, had collapsed, creating a wall of rocks, trees and glistening, exposed earth like raw flesh. The river was tearing along the wall, ripping into it like a hungry beast, sending rocks tumbling into the dark, foaming waters.

There was no trace of the infernals that had caused the massive cave-in. Not a trace of the men that had fought them. _The Swift River. It will suck down a full-grown stag in less than ten heartbeats. _The night elf's words rang in her ears.

The last fear whispered away as she fully realized what the intend of the attack had been.

"There's no way back," she whispered.

"We are not the only ones wanting to end this," Thrall replied, his voice gritted with a resolve that for an instance made her pity their unknown enemy.

A sudden image of the two mages she had teleported straight into danger and failed to save flashed through her mind. Her panic and shock at seeing the disaster in front of her had made her shortly forget about them. She desperately hoped they had made it through, but right now there were many others in need of help.

"We have to get the wounded to safety," she said.

"Yes, as quickly as poss -" A shout in orcish interrupted them, and Thrall whipped around, shouting back. Looking as bedraggled as she felt, an orcish warrior came running towards them, brandishing an axe in one hand and sporting a number of shallow-looking wounds on the shoulder and face. The warrior rasped out something in a hurry, and Jaina could feel Thrall tense. Not good news, she surmised.

"Miss Proudmoore, " he said, lapsing back into formal speak now they were no longer alone.

"I'll have to leave the wounded to you. This is not good…" His voice trailed off, and – sensing his impatience – Jaina slid of the wolf, somewhat tenderly. It felt like several of her ribs had been pushed in. Trying to ignore the sudden closeness of the wolf's white head, the size of a small barrel and displaying teeth longer than her fingers, she asked: "What's going on?"

He regarded her sharply for a moment, as if weighing things. "I will explain later. Not now," he said, and turned his wolf around, following the warrior up the slope.

Jaina watched them go, brows furrowed. Then she shook her head, and turned around. Later.

Half-running across the stony, slippery ground, she grabbed a hold of the nearest human soldier.

"Has anybody taken command?"

The soldier gave her a startled look, and Jaina belatedly recognized him as Leroy, the soldier that had escorted her those days ago.

"Lady Proudmoore!" The young soldier saluted, and tried his best to look imposing. "Sir Sundare, Lady. He's over there." Leroy pointed to a burly man some distance away, who was shouting orders and at the same time trying to get his panicky warhorse under control.

"I see. Leroy, you might as well gather some men and get the wounded on dry ground."

"Yes, milady."

Jaina made her way through the crowd, narrowly missing being rammed by a group of wolf-riders heading for the river. Briefly wondering what they were up to, she halted a safe distance from Sundare's mount, as it half-rose and flailed in the air with steel-shod hooves.

"Pynesco!" she yelled. Upon hearing his given name, the paladin brought his horse around, and then exclaimed: "Lady Jaina, by the Light, what are you doing here?"

"Teleportation," Jaina said quickly. "How's the situation?"

"Not all the way to Hell. I think most of the boys got out intact. I've ordered the men to regroup by the outcropping over there." The paladin finally got his horse reined in and the lathering animal slammed its hooves into the ground right in front of Jaina.

The sorceress jumped back, silently wishing a good riddance to all four-legged creatures.

"Good. Have someone send word to Gildhaft about the situation, and bring some healers down here. I want the flooded area combed. Living or dead, I want no one left behind."

Sundare hollered out the new orders, and Jaina saw the soldiers spread out, eyeing the sky every once in a while. The sorceress perfectly understood their anxiety, but she didn't think another attack was eminent. She knew a little about the sheer power required to call the fiery beings called infernals, but most of all, she had the feeling their adversary had accomplished its goal, and was now waiting, watching. Calling another elemental to help move fallen logs and stones, she came to fully realize what the destruction of the ford implied. This would be no hunt for scattered remnants of the Legion. There was something out there with a plan and means to employ it. Something that wanted to fight so badly it had cut off their way out. _Hollow master calling_. And the knowledge only hardened her resolve to end this. At least it meant a place to strike, instead of having to chase down rogue demons from one end of Ashenvale to the other.

A group of healers and a contingent of soldiers soon joined them, Tahraidel among them, dispatched with the message that the main host of troops had set up a defensive position.

There was a marked grayness in the air when two soldiers made an unsettling find. Jaina saw them move away from something half-hidden under broken branches, and expected another mangled corpse. It wasn't. Instead of exposed bones and torn flesh, she was treated to the sight of an orc, as corded with muscles and savagely adorned as the rest of his people, and his face contorted in the single most anguished expression Jaina had ever seen. It wasn't the individual details, the drawn lips, the pupils contracted to mere pinheads, the tongue that had been bitten clear through, it was the whole they formed, and it made her blood run cold. For all the world, it seemed he had died of fright. _Afraid of water, too?_

"Light, what in the -"

"Ah, so this be the fifth." Startled, Jaina looked at the lanky troll that appeared to have come out of no-where, to stand a few paces away. He didn't look like a warrior. Maybe a shaman or healer.

"The fifth?" she echoed. The troll, whose most notable features where metal-pins the length of her lower arm stuck through his long ears, sidled closer, and peered down at the dead orc.

"Orcs be dying, Miss, dying from nothing, and in great suffering. This one be the fifth in this place" Hunching down, the troll traced a symbol on the arm of the dead orc. The angular design was raw, unpolished, very different from the intricately shaped designs she had been taught and was used to.

"Only here?" she asked, troubled.

"No, before this, plenty have died," the troll replied.

Jaina absorbed the information with a feeling of gloomy revelation. She doubted one could gauge the depth of the Warchief's dedication to his people, and the loss of his people to reasons unknown was more than half ways to explain his edginess and impatience over the last few days.

Before she had a chance of asking more questions, the troll moved away, his gait purposeful and head slowly swiveling from side to side. Searching. Shelving the questions for later, Jaina turned to the footmen. The soldiers were eyeing the corpse with the kind of revulsion she had last seen when the plague spread back in Lordaeron. One of the men was rubbing his hands on his pants, like trying to remove some invisible stain.

"There is no reason to spread word of this," she told them sharply. "It will only cause undue worry."

"It might be a sickness, Lady," the one, who was wiping his hands, said.

"I don't think so," Jaina said softly. "What sickness causes fear like that?"

"Serve's 'em right," the man sneered.

Jaina spun on her heel to face the soldier. "Weigh your thoughts carefully. The orcs are our allies, and you soil nothing but your self by speaking like that."

The soldier looked stricken by her words, but Jaina didn't falter. She was fed up with these unnecessary complications. The soldier lowered his gaze. "I – will not speak like that again, Lady," he said, whether honestly or feigning, she couldn't tell.

"Let's move on," the sorceress muttered. She was beginning to shiver in her wet clothes.

Healing magic had never been Jaina's forte, much to her chagrin, and as the search draw to an end, with no trace of Zach nor Airin, she was about to head back. She very much wanted the explanation Thrall had promised her, especially given the troll's disclosure about the strange deaths.

She was talking with Pynesco, when a single wolf-rider, astride a silvery grey beast nearly as big as Thrall's mount, approached. The limp form of a dark-haired man was slung across the back of the wolf. Jaina's heart nearly skipped a beat.

Halting a few paces from her, the wolf-rider greeted her gruffly.

"Lady Proudmoore, we found this one was clinging to some rocks half a mile down river. Almost as good as new." The orc divested him self of his load by trusting the unconscious man at Jaina, who nearly lost her balance as she struggled to hold the man upright.

"I – thanks – you searched the river?" she stammered, flashing a grateful smile at Pynesco, as he rushed to help her lower the man to the ground.

"Warchief's orders," the orc replied. "Found no one else." His voice betraying incredulity at this fact, the wolf-rider sped away without another word.

"How is he?" the paladin asked. Jaina had already smoothed the man's long hair away from his face, silently offering a prayer of gratitude to the Light. Pale as dough, and scratched like he had tried to wrestle a wildcat, it was nonetheless Zacharias, and the orc had spoken truth. The mage's chest rose and fell strongly, and even as Jaina waved Tahraidel over, his eyes flicked open and he tried to sit up.

"No you don't," Jaina warned. Tahraidel examined Zacharias' bruises, ignoring the mage's protests.

"Rest, and warmth, and a crutch," the priest concluded. Zacharias scrambled to his feet. "When I'm your age, Sweets," he said, grimacing. Hiding a grin, Jaina embraced the mage she had known since her very first year of study.

"How, by the Staff of Stars, did you survive?" she exclaimed.

Zacharias gave her a tired look. "Let's just say I never, ever want to do it again."

"Zach!" He told her. Jaina stared at him in amazement, and then shook her head. "You know, Antonidas was jesting in that lecture."

"It worked," the mage said. Then his eyes darkened.

"What about Airin?"

Jaina closed her eyes briefly, her joy torn by the thought of the friend that was still missing.

"Airin never was the attentive student," she whispered forlornly.

"No, he wasn't," Zacharias responded, just as quietly.

Jaina felt the tension the moment she entered the temporary camp. Something was wrong. She found Merrehen at one of the blazing fires that had been lighted to dry equipment and put some warmth back into shivering bodies, having an argument in low voices with Hieron Tarasal, the commander of the remaining Gilnean forces. Ennon Gemeye was watching, idly slamming one calloused fist into the palm of other, accompanied with the sound of knuckles braking. Though his face was composed, both his good eye and the sapphire orb in his left socket seemed to glow with an inner light, like the gleam of fire on drawn steel.

"Gentlemen, what's going on?" she inquired. Both Merrehen and Tarasal turned, staring at her. Clearly, they hadn't heard her approach.

"Your Ladyship, I demand you break this alliance at once! My men -" Merrehen silenced Tarasal with a rough grip on the other man's arm.

"Lady Jaina, a skirmish broke out while you were gone -," Merrehen began, but Tarasal interrupted.

"Skirmish! By my father's grave, stop lying, Gildhaft!"

"I'll tell Miss Jaina what happened," Gemeye said, stepping forward. "You see to the young windbag."

The dwarf's tone was terse, and the fire hadn't left his eyes. Merrehen shrank back, giving Tarasal a stern reprimand.

"Let's go over to the fire, Miss, you're soaked through." Jaina eagerly followed the suggestion, loosening her cloak and holding out her hands to the heat.

"Well?"

It was both worse and less than she had expected. After she had teleported out with Zach and Airin, in the vain assumption magic would be more effective than weapons in stopping the infernals, Merrehen had led the troops around. He hadn't been more than halfway down the slope when the river-side collapsed. Quickly realizing that the fighting was over before it began, he instead ordered a defensive position. Then, without any warning, a couple of orcs had turned on a group of Gilnean fighters, wounding three, one critically, in the initial confusion. A company of riflemen had rushed to the defense of the Gilneans, and more orcs and some trolls joined in the fray. A full-out battle was only avoided because the Warchief had charged into the chaos, knocking the combatants out with a few well-placed lightning bolt. By the time an officer arrived at the scene, the offending orcs had already been hauled off.

"We've had our differences before, that's the Light's own truth, Miss, but there's never been drawn blood like this. The Gilneans says the attack came out of the blue, no provocations, no signs, and they say the orcs' eyes glowed red."

Jaina felt her mouth go dry. Red. It couldn't be. The demon curse had been broken when Mannoroth died. Or so Thrall had assured her.

"The Warchief was full o' regret Miss, but a' never saw so dark an expression. He said he would make everything clear, but that we should wait for you. And so we've been waiting. Tarasal has been making a ruckus, but that's to be expected from that hothead," Gemeye concluded.

"So there's no doubt. It was the orcs that attacked?" Jaina asked with as much calm as she could muster.

"Aye, Miss, no doubt about that."

Jaina paused for a moment, then resolutely dropped her cloak to the ground and called out to Merrehen.

"I'm going straight to the Warchief. He owes me one hell of an explanation."

"Very well, Miss. Just you promise me to be careful," Gemeye said gravely.

"I will, Ennon, I will…" she replied with the strange feeling they were not referring to the same thing at all.

A tight-faced orc led Jaina and the paladin through the Horde's part of the temporary camp. Dark gazes followed them, and the silence could be cut with a knife.

The Warchief was standing at a blazing fire, next to a bent figure in a robe. On the ground, arms slung around a massive log and crossed hands tied, was an orc. Once in a while, the orc jerked, and a spasm ran across his green skin. The eyes had rolled so far back in the scull she couldn't make out the color.

The fire lend a flickering, reddish cast to the scenario, and Jaina involuntarily stopped. Thrall looked up, the light of the fire playing along his armor and tusks, and it could have been a million years ago, or never, that she'd had his arm around her waist, and he's presence had driven away her fear.

"Miss Proudmoore, I've been expecting you," he said, in a neutral tone not giving anything away.

"Warchief," she mumbled, not moving.

"Do not be scared. This one will not cause anymore trouble." Steeling her self, Jaina stepped closer. She was sympathetic with the losses and the obvious distress of the whole situation, but her men had been put in danger by Thrall's neglect to inform her of his troubles. That was not tolerable.

"Warchief, I'm being told your warriors are dying from something nobody can explain. You've been on edge since Archimonde was defeated, and now I come back to find that orcs have attacked my troops. Orcs whose eyes glowed red! Warchief – Thrall, by the Light, what is happening?"

"What indeed?" the orc said darkly. "But you are right. An explanation is long overdue."

"Thrall, this might not be the place to enlighten Miss Proudmoore." The voice was firm and clear, though burdened by many years. The robed figure turned, and milky eyes met Jaina's. She hadn't met the ancient shaman called Drek'thar more than a few times, and only spoken to him once. The shaman spoke common as well as Thrall, but it was obvious he left the dealings of the alliance to the Warchief. Blind the shaman might be, but his gaze penetrated to the very core of the soul, and Jaina had a healthy dose of respect for Drek'thar.

"You are right, Elder." Thrall led Jaina and Merrehen towards another, smaller fire. Jaina caught a glimpse of an object, glinting like metal, being drawn from the shaman's robe. She quickly averted her gaze.

"Sit," Thrall said, indicating a log with one hand. Jaina did as bid, while Merrehen remained standing, taking a vigilant stance behind her. Thrall seemed to consider, and then seated him self on a log opposite her, so the fire separated them. With hardly a sound, a gigantic white wolf emerged from the darkness, curling up next to the Warchief. Running a large hand across the wolf's back, Thrall began to talk.

"Miss Proudmoore, Captain Gildhaft, I am deeply sorry for the attack upon your men. It might have been avoided, was it not for my foolish pride." His voice housed a resentment so strong it became a physical thing, and Jaina listened, transfixed by the raw emotions surfacing.

"Jaina, I know Hai'khin have told you about these damnable deaths plaguing my people. It began following Archimonde's defeat. The victims are overrun with excruciating pains, often collapsing with cramps and falling unconscious and into final sleep in a matter of hours." Recalling the tormented face of the dead orc by the river, Jaina shuddered.

"Yes, it isn't a pleasant sight, and you have been spared seeing what goes before," Thrall said, reading her expression well in the failing light.

"The healers cannot ease the pains, not by magic and not by herbs. Hai'khin, who is a very skilled healer in his own strange way, came to me, speaking of unnatural causes, of the spirit struggling. I am sorry to say that I was denser than a kodo-beast. I thought it was due to the battle we had fought, some kind of demonic poison lingering.

The orc paused, stone-faced in the fire-light. His wolf raised its head, and yowled softly, very unlike the ferocious sounds Jaina had heard earlier.

"Demon poison it is, but one as old as my people's corruption. Demon blood, once imbibed, leaves a permanent taint on the spirit, growing deeper and deeper as time passes. The destruction of Mannoroth quenched the source of the corruption, but it did not erase the taint. What ever it is that is calling out to the surviving demons, it is also reaching my people, by way of that taint. I sustained the simple pride that they were dying, rather than giving in to the call, to the blood-haze. Until today, that is."

Silence reigned for some time. Jaina could feel Merrehen's measured gaze on her, and tried to balance his calm demeanor up against the stark feelings of the situation.

"I accept your apologies and your reasoning, Warchief," Jaina finally said, "but never keep anything like this from me again. Any more unexpected danger like this will tear our Alliance apart."

"That was never my intention. Miss Proudmoore, you have my word that I will not keep things like this from you. Just know that there are things that doesn't concern our Alliance, and to which you are not entitled."

"We all have our secrets," Jaina said, inwardly breathing a huge sigh of relief. They were back on common ground.

Sorceress and Warchief regarded each other across the fire for some time.

"So that's why you left after - saving my life…" Jaina suddenly realized why she had felt so uneasy when Thrall had left earlier. She'd forgotten to thank him for getting her out of harm's way.

"It was. The warrior told me that some of Warsong Clan had run amok, and that their eyes had glowed red."

"So the one tied down over there –?"

" – is of the Warsong. His comrades are dead, the same way as the others. I made the mistake of loosen the bonds on one of them. He very nearly bid out the throat of one of my scouts. That one over there, his mind is lost, and death will be a blessing."

Jaina watched the pattern of embers for a while, before continuing. "There is no way of knowing if it will happen again?"

"No. This is enemy land. We are heading for the source of the call."

Which lead them to straight to the real threat. Something strong enough to call demons in, and infernals out of the sky.

"Warchief, do you have any inkling as to the nature of this source?" Merrehen asked, moving to sit next to Jaina. The paladin's expression was guarded, and Jaina could tell that he was worried.

"None what so ever, Captain. All I have is Priestess Tyrande's words, and the proofs of power we have all experience."

"And it adds up to far more than I like," Jaina said darkly. "It takes considerable power to summon extra-dimensional beings such as infernals. When we fought the Warsong Clan, they relied upon the raw might of Mannoroth to do so."

"Are you saying we might be facing a demon of Mannoroth's power?" Thrall growled, clearly not having forgotten the ease with which the pit lord had dispatched him.

"I don't think so. Somehow, all of this, the calling, the destruction of the ford, it's too capricious, too erratic. If our enemy has the power to call up blood-lust, then why not before?"

"Because we wasn't walled in before," Thrall answered. "What ever it is that awaits us, I think it enjoys spreading a little mayhem."

"The High Priestess might have more information, if she was here," Merrehen said. Jaina turned around to regard the paladin. She hadn't had time to think about Tyrande's whereabouts, but now the worry surfaced again.

"Has there been any news?"

Merrehen shook his head. "Leleen Hawkflight informed me her scouts have not found any trace of the Priestess. She was extremely distressed."

"Understandably," Jaina muttered. "It doesn't bode well at all. Unfortunately, its too dark to do anything now."

She turned her attention back to Thrall.

"How do we keep more blood from being spilled?" she asked plaintively.

"Unless we split up the troops completely, I can only advise you to be utterly attentive and careful. I will have the Warsong march as far away as possible, and have my warriors watch the veterans carefully."

"Splitting the troops is out of the question," Jaina said. "We have crossed an ocean to fight an enemy from out of this world. We should be able to overcome this. I will give my men the appropriate orders

"Lady, it will deepen the mistrust between our forces," Merrehen said soberly.

"Then tell them the truth. That demons are to blame for this, demons and no one else. Tell them that orcs die as well. No, tell them that our _allies_ are dying as well."

She stopped, feeling the color high in her cheeks. It had come in a rush, but she knew she was right. To do anything but carry on in unity was to give in, and it would be disaster. She just knew it.

"Very well." Thrall cast a quick glance in the direction of Drek'thar and the tied-down orc. Jaina rose, dismissing a thought of asking into the matter. She was not entitled to all, and frankly she didn't want to know all.

"We'll meet at dawn tomorrow," she said. "Until then, go with the Light." Thrall grinned slightly. "I will try to. May the Spirits be with you." He paused, and then added: "Jaina, back there, it was more than ordinary fright? I haven't heard a scream like that since I fought harpies."

"I'm terrified of water. I have been since I was a child," the sorceress admitted, no longer caring if it would be perceived as a weakness. It didn't matter in the greater picture, anyway.

"And still you came here," was all he said.

"It didn't seem all that much, compared to the destruction of all life on Azeroth, Thrall," Jaina replied dryly.

_Water swirled around her, tucking at her hair and clothes like playful hands inviting her to join in their game. Knowing that it was a game that would only bring death, she struggled, flailing her arms and kicking her legs. The water seemed to ease its hold for a moment, apparently amused by her opposition, and she could see the light of the sun, dazzling rays falling through the transparent blue, coming closer. Then the current returned with greater force, the pull no longer teasing and mischievous. Instead, she sensed a cold malevolence that scared her more than the danger of loosing her life. There was something down there, something that thirsted for her heartbeat like a wolf for red meat. Frantically, she fought, her vision going red and her lungs burning. To no avail. And then she knew. There were things worse than death, things to which death was to be preferred. She opened her mouth, welcoming the water, and blackness replaced red and sweet oblivion came to her rescue…_

Jaina awoke with a start, her hands going to her throat. Looking around wildly, she was met by the sight of the quiet camp, people sleeping wrapped in blankets or cloaks next to the smoldering fires. The air was chill and moist, and it was just that – air. Slowly, she realized she was not choking, that she was hopelessly wrapped in her blanket, not smothered by ocean currents. She sat up, plying her blanket from her body and rubbed her face to exorcise the nightmare.

A heavy mist hung low between the twisted trees, obscuring all details, for which Jaina was not ungrateful. Setting camp in near darkness had not blotted out the glowing lichens covering the ground and trees that might once have been fir, that shaded out the sky with needles like racks of teeth on branches bedecked with pulsating ridges and gummy webbings reminiscent of flesh. Small, furred creatures with eyes overgrown with pink skin had hissed at them from branches, too quick in their blindness to be taken down with a blow when tempers snapped.

Jaina slapped a stinging bug with iridescent wings landing on her arm. It burst, staining her sleeve with a blackish fluid she recognized as orc blood with a touch of discomfort. _How nice to know that orcs and humans are equals in the eyes of a bug._

A couple of guards walked by, grey shadows in the haze. They didn't seem to have noticed her antics. Everything appeared calm, and yet she could feel the tension that permeated the camp like an invisible sibling to the fog. Yesterdays events and the orders regarding the orcs behavior had left an atmosphere both sullen and jittery. But they had obeyed.

Jaina rose and smoothed her cloak. She had slept in her clothes, both for ease and for warmth, but she nonetheless felt a cold that was not due to the chill of pre-dawn and the damp mist. Why had she dreamt it? The nightmare hadn't haunted her for more than 10 years, not since she came to study with the Kirin Tor, far from the sea, and there had been something unsettlingly different, an added fear besides the helpless feeling of drowning. Had she opened her mouth willingly; invited death in?

As if she did not have enough to worry about. Carefully, she picked her way among the sleeping soldiers, aiming for the waterhole around which the joint camp was centered, watching her every step. Bloated insects crawled amongst the lichen and swampy growths, languid and lethargic with some evil infusion that had replaced the natural need of self-preservation.

She passed more guards, both her own men and orcs, as she passed the line dividing the camp. Regardless of race, their hands were at their weapons, even as she identified herself.

The waterhole was little more than a depression in the ground, fed by a small stream and covered by a strange, brownish algae. However, the Sentinels had pronounced it fit for drinking, and there were no alternatives.

Kneeling down at the stream, the sorceress splashed water in her face and ran a comb through her knotted hair. The dream seemed far-gone already, banished to the realm of the subconscious, but the cold persevered. Jaina had never put much faith in dreams, it belonging to the obscure world of fortune-tellers and old crones selling love potions and reading palms. Yet, she could not shake the feeling of something ominous. She briefly considered telling someone, but decided against it. It was probably just a product of yesterdays shocking events, and she did not feel the need to add hazy fears to the high-strung atmosphere. The sound of footsteps made her turn her head. A disturbing silhouette appeared out of the fog and she tensed, just to realize it was a panther with a night elf mounted on its back.

The night elf dismounted and the cat padded down to the water, lapping delicately with a pink tongue.

"Good morning, Leleen," Jaina said cautiously. The Sentinel regarded her for a moment, then said in a haggard voice.

"The forest will not heed our call. I fear I will not find Mistress Whisperwind in time." The night elf's dark eyes were filled with a distress that brought the dream vividly back.

"She doesn't have to be in danger," Jaina said, without any real conviction.

Leleen stared at her, her eyes enormous in the thin face.

"You do not understand. The Sentinels shared bond is gone. It was not supposed to be so long without some kind of message. If my Mistress is in need of aid, I will not know. I will not know where to search for my sisters."

"We will find her," was all Jaina could offer.

The night elf did not answer, just stroked her panther with a distant expression. Jaina hovered for a while, and then walked back. The camp was stirring by now, grumbling voices, fires being fed and even a laughter here and there. Coming back to her sleeping spot, Jaina was greeted by the sight of Merrehen Gildhaft talking with an agitated foot-soldier.

"What is happening?" she asked, reassured somewhat by the fact that the alarm hadn't been raised.

"My Lady," the soldier said, bowing. "We have found a night elf on the outskirts of camp. She is badly injured."

"The message," Jaina muttered, thinking of Leleen.

"Have you called for a healer?" she inquired. "Luckily, sir Sundare had the command," the soldier answered.

Jaina turned to Merrehen. "Captain, find Leleen Hawkflight. She should be by the waterhole. Tell her to meet me here." She turned back to the soldier. "Please, take me to her."

The soldier led her to the outskirts of camp, and down a path trod by the patrolling guards, and stopped at a copse of the swollen, disfigured fir-trees. A couple of soldiers where standing next to a tree, swords drawn. They moved aside, and Jaina saw Sundare kneeling at the side of a night elf, propped against the tree like a rag-doll thrown by a careless child. A soft glow emanated from the paladin's hands, and cast faint shadows across the bloody mess that was the night elf's torso, and the deep, slowly trickling gash in her thigh

Edging closer, Jaina could see the exposed sinews and white bone, and she had to swallow, despite having seen corpses in much worse condition

She held her quiet, not wanting to disturb the paladin's concentration. Sweat was beading on Sundare's forehead, and the wounds were only closing slowly, more slowly than usually. Suddenly, the night elf jerked, her eyes rolling upwards, and coughed, spraying blood onto the paladin.

Jaina reached out, afraid the night elf was dying, but the paladin halted her.

"No, Lady. Look."

To her surprise, Jaina saw that the deep thigh-wound had closed, raw tissue replaced by bluish skin.

"Something – something fought against the healing," Sundare said wearily. "It's gone now."

The sound of commotion made Jaina turn around, just in time to see a slender silhouette dart in between the guards. Leleen.

"SHANDRIS!"

The Sentinel, perhaps half the weight of Sundare, flung the paladin aside and embraced the night elf named Shandris with desperate force. Shandris stirred and began to talk in a weak, but coherent voice. Listening intently, Leleen turned white and her fingers clenched shoulder of the wounded elf so hard she squirmed.

Whispering something, Leleen lightly pressed her hand to Shandris' heart and then spun around, the sheer fright in her eyes so vivid Jaina's mouth went dry.

"My Sisters are in mortal peril!" she exclaimed. "We must go at once!"


	7. Quickly!

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. Oh my, countdown to reality.

AN: Darth, go get laid.

_Chapter 6: Quickly!_

Angry growls made Thrall throw down the piece of armor he had been fastening, and turn. It sounded like dire wolves, and not a happy bunch at that. A moment later, two huge white shapes loped out of the mist that had settled during the night, one in snarling pursuit of the other. The first wolf, a young male, scrambled around the fire and, finding that the path was blocked by make-shift shelters, whirled and faced its pursuer, teeth bared and ears flat against the skull. The other wolf, also male, and possessing the massive body and heavy jaws of a full-grown dire wolf, regarded the youngster sharply, clearly awaiting submission.

Thrall bent to pick up the shin-guard, looking around warily for the wolves Companions. It was clearly an internal skirmish in the pack, not a reaction to an outside threat, but it was nonetheless reckless behavior in times of war.

"TATTERFUR!"

A young male orc burst into camp, and perhaps bolstered by its Companion's presence, the younger wolf was so foolish as to issue a challenging snarl. Like a strike of lightning, the older male was over it, jaws a-gape and green eyes flashing.

Cursing, Thrall dropped the shin-guard for the second time and jumped into the fray. This was no mock battle. The pursuing wolf had gone straight for the throat, and the young one howled in pain as strong jaws clamped tight around its neck.

Having no other option, Thrall snatched the attacker's muzzle with both hands and forced the jaws apart, while the on-rushing orc managed to wrench the young male free. The wolf in Thrall's grasp struggled madly to get away, and resisted his every attempt at calming it. It took most of his considerable strength to hold onto the ferocious beast, while the young wolf limped away, tail low and blood staining its white fur.

"Icegale, calm!"

Another orc, tall and dressed in refitted human chain-mail, appeared on the scene, followed by a winded human soldier. The tall orc threw his spear on the ground and grabbed the wolf Thrall held by the scruff of its neck.

"Get him under control, Uthul!" Thrall snapped to his friend, whose wolf-Companion it was, and turned to see how Tatterfur fared. The second orc, as his wolf little more than a youngster, was anxiously examining the bite.

"How bad is it?"

The young orc looked up, his expression one of worry. "Not very deep, thank the Ancestors," he stammered, and then went on: "It was just teasing, nothing more, Warchief…" His voice faltered as Thrall scowled at him.

"Just teasing… I find that hard to believe, given that Icegale wanted to tear the lungs from your Companion's chest."

Rather abruptly, he turned and faced down the human soldier, who had watched the commotion wide-eyed.

"What is this about?" he snapped. Coughing to clear this throat, the human hastily explained how a wounded night elf had been found by a guard-patrol on the eastern edge of camp, and how she had pleaded for help.

"We have to hurry, my Lord," the soldier finished, with a politeness that struck Thrall as somewhat absurd given the circumstances.

"A moment," Thrall replied, his thoughts whirling with worry and elation. _Damn elvish pride!_ He had feared this would come to pass, since Leleen Hawkflight had told them the Priestess had crossed into Felwood contrary to the agreed-upon plan. By the Ancestors, hadn't she her self told them how weakened the night elves were, how much the corrupted Forest pained them? And yet, he knew sure as sunrise that Tyrande Whisperwind would never do anything rash, or be deterred from her goal even by the prospect of death. He might not understand the night elves and their convoluted, millennia-old society, but he had the utmost respect for the proud Priestess.

Battle was imminent and unavoidable, he could taste it as he could taste the rot of the Felwood on the air, and despite everything, he felt a welcoming quickening of his heart. Let there be honest battle and not sickness, subterfuge and red eyes in the night.

First, though, he had to make something plain.

"Grizh," he said quietly, "give me that." He pointed to the shin-guard.

The young orc hastened to obey, and as he lifted the heavy, brass-trimmed piece of plating, Thrall laid a broad hand on his shoulder. "Grizh, if either you or Tatterfur throws a tantrum like that again, all you'll see from now on is the rear end of a pack kodo," he said softly.

The shoulder trembled slightly, but the voice did not. Miracles did happen, apparently.

"Yes, Warchief."

"Good. I thought we'd agree."

Thrall placed the Doomhammer at his belt, and turned to the soldier. "Lead the way," he said, and then called out to Uthul, who was scratching Icegale behind one ear. What had moments before been a frothing devil, now resembled nothing so much as a big dog.

"Uthul, tell Nazgrel where I've gone and get the warriors roused." The Frostwolf bowed in affirmation, and left.

"And you - come along!" he told Grizh.

Grizh blinked, like he hardly believed was he was hearing, but managed to hold his silence. The two orcs followed the soldier into the fog, Tatterfur loping behind.

At the edge of camp, Snowsong snuck up to Thrall's side, sniffed at Tatterfur and seemed to smirk. Thrall stroked her neck, feeling her muscles quiver with anticipation. The wolf had sensed what was coming.

The human lead them along the perimeter of the camp, and then a little into the forest. The mist wreathed around them, cold and sinuously like the coils of a sea serpent, and the black iron of Thrall's armor soaked up the chill gleefully. The Warchief shuddered slightly as the cold penetrated through the padding he wore underneath. The sun must be up by now, but there would be no sight of it for hours in a forest this dense.

Pushing through a thorny growth, Thrall was confronted with a drawn sword, held by another soldier. Behind the man, he spotted more soldiers, surrounding Jaina Proudmoore, a red-haired paladin and a night elf he didn't recognize.

"Kense, have you lost all wits?" snapped their guide. The soldier named Kense lowered his weapon and stepped aside, though not with any kind of hurry. Ignoring the insolent sluggishness, Thrall strode past the human and joined the crowd, letting Grizh linger in the background with the wolves.

"What's going on, Miss Proudmoore?"

The Sorceress turned, her expression grave. "Warchief, this is Shandris Feathermoon," she said, indicating the night elf. "High Priestess Tyrande's lieutenant. She's bearing ill news."

"Must we waste time on these pleasantries," the night elf whispered, her voice drained but firm. She was as tall as most of her race, and looked like she had been to Hell and back. Her clothes were in tatters and encrusted with dried blood, and what wasn't bloodied and torn was covered with dirt, and her hair was singed on one side.

"I need to know what has happened, if I am to help," Thrall said plainly.

Shandris Feathermoon nodded wearily.

"My Mistress and Sisters are besieged by enemies and desperately in need of help. I and four others were sent for help. I am the only one to make it alive, and only at the cost of my Sisters lives! Please, there is no time to waste!"

Desperation flared in her voice, and she looked at them wildly, like a cornered deer. Thrall frowned, realizing that was all the explanation she was going to offer.

"Thrall, as far as I have understood," Jaina cut in, with a slightly apologetic glance at Shandris, who seemed not to notice, "the Sentinels are defending a group of beleaguered night elves. Shandris spoke of 'their kind'."

"I thought all night elves had left the scarred parts of the forest," Thrall said.

"I don't know. She wasn't very clear on the matter," Jaina replied. "Anyway, it's a distance of more than two miles, and through a wetland. Horses will be useless in that kind of terrain, and on foot I fear it will take far too long time… Would your wolves do better?" she asked, with an uncertainty that was rooted more in her obvious unease as a commander of men, than in lack of abilities to be one.

"The wolf-riders are our best option," Thrall agreed. The dire wolves were no matches for the night elves' black panthers in these woods, but what the proud beasts lacked in grace, they could make up for in resilience.

The Sorceress shook her head briefly, like she was taken aback by the fact he had approved of her suggestion.

"Miss Feathermoon, what number of enemies are we dealing with?" he asked, turning to the night elf.

"Several demons, and more than a hundred of those crawling defilers of life," she said slowly, an echo of loss in her voice that seemed even more frightening than her fit a moment ago. This one was prone to do foolish things, Thrall realized grimly. He'd have to watch her closely.

"There might be more," Shandris went on. "They attack like a swarm of bees, here and there and then gone. To be honest, I don't understand. They could have run us into the ground by now... It's almost like the demons are – taunting us…" Her voice faltered, and Thrall grumbled under his breath. Once again, he felt the grim touch of something malevolent and very deliberate.

He pocketed the thoughts by force. Speed was of the essence now.

"Miss Proudmoore, I'll take the wolf-riders and let Miss Feathermoon show the way. Follow as soon as you are ready. I'll leave orders with Nazgrel that he is to defer to you."

"Are you sure you have the numbers to make a difference?" the Sorceress asked frankly. "It won't simply mean dying that much faster?"

"It's risky as Hell," Thrall replied just as frankly.

Jaina shook her head lightly. "I thought as much," she complied, and reaches into a small pouch attached to her belt and produces a piece of rock crystal. "What I wouldn't give for a Circle of Teleportation," she muttered, and then whispered a few, soft words. The crystal flickered bluish, and the light retracted, leaving only a speck of blue in the middle of the stone, like a firefly caught in amber.

"Grizh!" Thrall barked. The Frostwolf youngster obeyed with a nervous eagerness befitting someone far below his age.

"Get back to camp and get Nazgrel. Then tell Ye'trag Hearttickler to gather the wolf-riders and meet me here. Quickly!" Grizh formerly threw him self onto Tatterfur's back and sped from the clearing like shot from a goblin contraption.

"Yes, it will do," Shandris mumbled, to none one in particular, regarding the departing dire wolf and rider with satisfaction.

"It better," Thrall said. "Miss Feathermoon, is it possible to go around the wetland?"

"It's blurred…" the night elf muttered. She touched the patch of burnt-away hair, and Thrall saw a wide spot of pale skin beneath the lilac tresses, where healing had not been able to regrow hair.

"No, the green's to wide. Not possible." She shook her head.

Thrall considered for a moment. Shandris was taller than him, but her slender frame carried not a third of his weight even when out of armor. Add to that weapons and put it on the back of a dire wolf… Plus, they would have to rely only on their nets for defense against possible air-borne attacks. Finally, Thrall had to suppress a very unfitting chuckle. Crossing a swamp under these conditions was a far cry from favorable, but by the Spirits, they had faced worse.

Leleen Hawkflight and two other Sentinels emerged from the trees, mounted on their panthers and appearing as high-strung and furious as cats that had been dunked in a vat of icy water. Sinuously, Shandris got up behind Leleen, and grabbed the bow and quiver the other night elf handed her.

"As soon as you are ready, Warchief," she said, running a finger along the bowstring to test the tension, a leader once more.

"I'll go back and see to the last preparations," Jaina said, waving the red-haired paladin to her side. She paused, and then held out the ensorcelled crystal. Thrall plucked the stone carefully from her tiny palm. It felt warm against his skin.

"It's a beacon," she explained. "I can track its presence across miles. So if you just hang onto your life until you reach Tyrande, I'll be able to find you. I don't trust my senses in this place."

"Thank you, Miss Proudmoore," he said, pocketing the beacon. The human possessed a strong magical sense of places and people, making it possible for her to teleport to a place she has previously been, or get him out from under Archimonde's very nose. The Warchief doubted the Felwood played havoc with human magic, but it did indeed play havoc with the humans that relied on the magic.

"Safe ride, Warchief," she said.

"We'll leave a few demons for you," Thrall replied grimly.

After the humans left, Thrall spend long minutes in strained silence, idly scratching Snowsong behind the ear, while the Sentinels sat like twilight statues on their cat mounts, only their darting eyes showing their unease. Finally, just as Shandris had hissed something that was clearly a reprimand, in reply to one of the night elves, they could here the sounds of something big and bulky moving through the trees. Nazgrel, astride a grey wolf, burst from the thorny bushed, followed closely by a dusty-red wolf scarred from missing ear to ribcage. The wolf's rider was a forbidden-looking orc not quite young.

"Warchief?" the second-in-command inquired, and when told what had been decided, he saluted promptly, if rigidly. He didn't look pleased to be ordered to obey a human, and a woman at that, but then, he didn't look surprised at this course of events, either.

"Where are we to strike, m'lord?" asked the scarred wolf's rider with a level, almost cynical tone, driving his mount forward. Though not marred in the flesh as was his wolf, Ye'trag Hearttickler, Captain of the wolf-riders, or raiders, as the destructive troops had also become known as, nonetheless seemed a good deal less than whole. His grey-streaked hair cropped close to his skull, so not to get tangled in his sword-play, and dressed in smooth chain-mail covered by subtle, dark hide, Ye'trag seemed cut to the bone, having shed all feelings in favor of steely discipline.

He was a Blademaster, a once-fierce member of the Burning Blades, that had kept his freedom, spending years in hiding, and one night had crept into camp as the new Horde prepared to depart for the West. He was one of the best sword-fighters Thrall had ever encountered, and so singular in his behavior it was unnerving to witness. He had seen Ye'trag cut the throat of a human child, which had been mortally wounded when a group of orcs had vented their frustrations on a small village, with the same dispassionate mien with which he would remove a splinter from his hand.

Coming to Kalimdor, Ye'trag had proven as good a fighter when mounted as on foot, and when Thrall had named him commander of the wolf-riders, not even the most experienced Frostwolves had uttered a single word of complaint. Unnerving or not, Ye'trag were amongst the very best.

"I do not know," Thrall replied truthfully.

The former Bladesmaster only nodded with indifference, shifting slightly in his seat to reach up and touch the hilt of his curved sword, Rimcleaver, the carved bone wetted with Ye'trag's own blood, in ritual preparation to battle. Behind him, the wolf-riders had amassed as good they could between the trees. Thrall surveyed the throng of shaggy beasts and their armed riders until mists obscured his vision. In-between the grey and black native wolves, white fur shone, evidence that the rider was a Frostwolf. On every face he saw caution and battle-eagerness only. What he was searching for, and did not find, were eyes glowing red, maddened with blood-lust.

_Spirits, let it stay like that._

He raised the Doomhammer and roared.

"Lok-thar, warriors! Our Allies are sorely pressed by demons, and only fierce riding will get us there in time. Follow the night elves, and ride with caution and trust in your mounts! For the Horde!"

An answering battle-cry rose from more than a hundred tusked mouths, and Thrall felt pride swell in his chest.

"Lead us," he said grimly, and invocating the name of their moon-goddess, the Sentinels charged into the mist-shrouded trees and the wolf-riders followed.

Demon taint and the loss of immortality might have robbed them of grace and vitality, might even have scarred their sanity, but now, racing to save their Sisters and Mistress, desperation lend the night elves a strange, unyielding strength. The panthers streaked through the fog like so many dark arrows, fired by a vengeful hand, slanted eyes gleamed with fierce fire, darting between the bloated trunks like insects skimming across water.

Digging his fingers into Snowsong's fur, Thrall trusted the wolf's sharp senses to keep up with this mad pace. The fog seemed to distort not only vision, but also sounds and smells, even the taste of moisture and tarnish and Snowsong's erratic movements. Twigs scratches against his armor and more than once he had to suddenly fling him self flat as a low branch loomed out of the grey dawn.

Around him, his warriors were little more than shadows, dark shapes in a land of ghosts and grayness, formation having been broken to give the riders space to maneuver.

It was near to impossible to judge distance, but Thrall thought they had gone more than a mile, when ground became rocky. Much to his relief, the trees thinned out. The wolves were able to pick up pace, and paws hit the ground like the sticks of a war-drummer. Thrall looked quickly to Ye'trag, but the Bladesmaster shook his head, indicating that he didn't know if any riders had fallen behind.

"Warchief, to the left!" Shandris' voice rang out suddenly, and Thrall saw the panther veer to the side, around a low rise of rocks, curtained in mosses displaying the vivid hues of fresh entrails. The ground sloped gently, and soon they were in a nearly dried-out riverbed, only a muddy stripe of brown water left. Thrall felt a stab of dismay from Snowsong. After yesterdays event he was not that fond of water him self, but the riverbed was pebbly and firm, and made for blessedly easy running.

After several minutes, Thrall became aware of a sour smell in the air, stronger than the perpetual tang of decay that he had gotten used to. Gravel gave way to dirt and the ground became yielding. When they came to a bend, Shandris lead them out of the riverbed, and up a sharp ridge. At the edge, the night elf raised her arm and yelled for a halt. Breaking stride, Thrall trotted up to her and Leleen, and then growled beneath his breath when he saw what lay ahead.

Feeble sunlight was cutting in from the east, shafting through the fog and glinting- not in stagnant water, but greenish sludge spreading out as far as he could see, in the distance melting into the dismal mists. Here and there stunted trees poked through the slush, flailing limbs of a diseased animal. Humming clouds of insects swarmed low over the iridescent froth that formed on the surface.

"How deep is this?" he asked, looking from the slender night elf to the foul mire spread out before them.

"Up to my knees, and deeper".

"I've seen yeti-nests more inviting than this place," he muttered, and then turned to the assembled raiders. Scowling faces mirrored his opinion of the swamp ahead.

"All are accounted for, m'lord," Ye'trag reported.

"A good ride," Thrall said with some relief. "Ye'trag, have the warriors form a loose line, and install them with the utmost caution."

"Yes, Warchief."

Weapons at the ready, the wolf-riders ventured into the swamp. Wolves and panthers sank deep into the sludge, and the bugs swarmed thickly at eyes and mouths. The orcs cursed foully, slapping at the stinging plagues and trying to ignore the stench that was released with each sucking step, sweetly-sick like pus, and made men and beasts snort with annoyance. Still, they made better progress than Thrall had expected. Diverting his attention between the swamp and the open sky, he wondered if it had been folly not to bring trolls along. Trolls were quick runners, able to outmatch most orcs. And every human he had come across, he thought grimly. Even at top marching speed, Jaina and the rest of the troops could not have come far.

"Shandris, how far?" he asked, turning to the night elf.

She shook her head. "Close. I think I recognize that tree over there... I am sorry." Thrall was not entirely sure if her apology was addressed at him.

Looking out over the surroundings, he noted that the fog had lifted. The landscape was given over to the wan sun light. Thrall had always liked the slanting, golden light of dawn and dusk best, the way the warm light brought out a glow in even the dullest of pebbles, even to his cell at Durnholde. Even to this demented place. It was with a kind of startled revelation that Thrall watched dawn come to the Felwood, and discover that there was beauty, albeit a twisted one, in this place. And there was life, a plethora of it slithering and undulating, creeping and crawling all around him. The Shaman in him felt them and he was reaching out to it before he managed to stop him self, almost too late recalling his own warning before crossing the Swift. Yes, there was life, and contrary to the ancient Ashenvale, this life welcomed him in like a mother welcomed her child to her bosom, to be cradled and nurtured and finally released strengthened and grown.

Abruptly, he tore him self loose, and was alarmed to find that he had to struggle; that some part of him wanted to go deeper in by a path that required no feet to be trod.

Snowsong whimpered and Thrall realized he held a great tuft of white fur in his hand. He stared at the pale hairs.

"Now you have felt it, too, Warchief, and you might think you have shaken it loose. You might think your self free, but that is a door that cannot be closed, once it is open." Shandris' voice was perfectly level. Only a arm's length separated the panther from Snowsong.

A thousand things clashed in Thrall's head, until he finally muttered: "Spirits of Earth and Sea, why didn't you tell us what awaited...?"

"Oh, we tried, but honestly, can what you have touched be told?"

"Blood of my father..." It welcomed him in, and he had welcomed it in turn.

"Yes, the worst of it all. Acid in the throat, and it is you who lifts the cup and drinks," Shandris said, and then pulling ahead. Thrall let the tuft of hair fly to the wind. He was beginning to get a very good idea why the Spirits of Ashenvale had told Drek'thar to go along.

"_Sirrowynde, arbi-tha? _he heard Shandris say.

_"Tha-ithiub Demearna!_" the answer came, from one of the Sentinels at the left flank.

"This way," Shandris whispered thinly, notching an arrow and indicating a clump of trees some 200 yards away.

"What is it?" Thrall asked, his hand at his Hammer, though the night elf's behavior had him quite convinced danger was not eminent.

"That is the place my Sisters made their last stand," Shandris Feathermoon told him quietly.

Cautiously, they crept closer. Soon several dark lumps of different sizes, lying in the long shadows of the trees, came into view, and the rusty smell of blood permeated through the stench of the swamp. Shandris had not lifted her bow, and seemed more miserable than tense, and as they got closer, Thrall understood. It was carnage, and as the night elf had foreseen, nothing but death lingered here.

A demon, reddish and scaled with huge, black wings hanging limply from its back and legs ending in cloven hooves, lay half-submerged in the sludge. Countless, gashes perforated the scaly hide, oozing the reddish-orange liquid fire that coursed in the veins of demons. Each wound was paper-thin, cut with a precision that was testimony to the skills of the Sentinels and magic of their Goddess-blessed moon-glaives.

Ten feet past the dead demons lay the body of a night elf, violet hair fanning out like fine silk. A glaive was still clutched in one hand, and from her back protruded two arrows with silvery fletching.

Thrall looked slowly to Shandris, half-expecting her to react with hysteria, but the night elf regarded the scene with ashen face, and then quickly moved on.

The other members of Shandris' escort were sprawled on the other side of the demon, closer to the trees, entangled in the corpses of several rotten skeletons and the sprawling remains of three of the obsidian-like flyers.

"You gave your lives for me," Shandris whispered, regarding the mangled bodies with a hollow sadness. One of them must have put two arrows through their Sister. If nothing else, death was the great equalizer

"Elune illuminates all. Great and small, She gives Her silver to all beasts of wood and pond and rock, and that is as should be," the night elf murmured, locking gaze with Thrall all the while, and he thought he understood why she spoke Common. It was reconciliation and benediction both, a way of keeping a frayed soul together.

Then he heard the thick, squishy sound of something moving through mud. Whirling, he saw the swamp stirring around them. Squat and misshapen creatures rose out of the mire, dripping with fetid water and thick sludge. There were more than a dozen, all armed with crude spears and blades. With a slight shock Thrall recognized the creatures as the hunched, wide-mouthed creatures they had faced on the now sunken islands, whose destruction they had so narrowly escaped. But the taint had been at the fish-men, twisting them so not to two were alike, sporting irregular number of limbs, eyes and even heads, covered in knobby and uneven skin with patchy scales and dangling lumps of flesh. Emitting shrill sounds, the creatures advanced on them.

A dozen murlocs, even hideously altered like these, should be no match for so large a force of raiders, but the sands were running. They had no time for this kind of fighting. Calling up the forces of thunder, he drove Snowsong forward.

"Break through," he roared, and let loose the energy. Lines of brilliant, bluish light raked through the air, leaping from body to body, dropping the nearest murlocs like blackened husks and creating a gaping whole in the enemy line. The wolf-riders surged forward, cutting right and left at the murlocs that turned at them eagerly, flailing claws and weapons. Thrall caved in the head of a towering murloc in his path, crushing the bones with a wet sound, and he was through, the swamp stretching undisturbed in front of him. And even better, he could see a dark stretch of trees ahead.

Peripherally, Thrall saw a wolf-rider go down, tangled in a net, but he did not slacken the pace before the wolves had firm ground under their paws again. Grimly, he called out to Ye'trag.

"Take ten riders, and teach those overgrown cods a lesson. We are not leaving anyone behind."

"Yes, Warchief." The captain called out names in quick succession, and then broke away, while Thrall led the main group onward.

The terrain was more open now, with low, kelp-like undergrowth and strutting toadstools glistening with sweet sap.

"The village is not far away," Shandris shouted, her voice quivering.

"Shandris, we'll get there in time," he shouted back, trying to calm her.

Suddenly, a roar, vicious and filled with an malignance too absolute to be of this world, echoed between the trees. A demon roar.

Shandris screamed.

In the next instance, Leleen was flung from the panther and left rolling on the ground as Shandris drove her heels into the great cat's flanks. It happened to suddenly Thrall had passed Leleen before he realized what had happened. Cursing foully, he could only watch the panther disappear into the forest. The roar sounded again, at least an easy beacon to go for.

They passed the remains of a guardian tree, surrounded by the shattered remains of undead, and then there were movements between the trees and battle was upon them.

Thrall raised the Doomhammer high above his head, and the battle cry rolled forth with hardly a thought, and his warriors roared in reply. The last six days melt away, and became nothing more than a brief respite in the struggle that seemed to have taken up his whole life.

"Let's send these bastards back to Hell!" he growled, and charged.

Ghouls swarmed between the trees, grabbing at the wolves' throats and legs, and clinging to the orcs with mindless abandon, trying to pull them down. The tight quarters forced the orcs to spread out, leaving them fighting in smaller groups and making it impossible to convey orders. Putting faith in his warriors abilities, Thrall steered in the direction from which the roar had come, hacking and smashing , when suddenly, a dark shadow appeared out of nowhere.

"Shandris!" he yelled, startled. The night elf seemed to have shed all pretence of composure, even the pride he had taken for inborn in the race. What was left was a creature as feral as a wolverine, arrows for claws and rage for teeth.

There was no time or thought for explanations or matters of trust.

"TO ME!" he bellowed, and followed the night elf that moments before had bolted in panic.

Bursting free of the trees, Thrall was met by the sight of a throng of undead amassing screaming and howling upon what he glimpsed to the living dwellings of night elves. A huge demon towered over the undead, whip in hand and roaring with hateful glee.

Swinging his Hammer in powerful arches, sending desiccated corpses flying with each swing, he lead the wolf-riders into the fray. The towering demon let out a fiery snarl, and with whip and bellows drove its troops to face this new threat. From overhead, a flock of gargoyles swept down, clattering and tearing, and though nets snared some, many went free.

Parrying the serrated blades of an abomination, Thrall felt a burning line traced across his forehead and a flow of air. With no time to spare, he ignored the gargoyle and faced down the hulking mass of rotten flesh, the stench even worse than the sight of organs bulging out of the seams that held the undead together. The abomination retracted one of its swords and swung out a rusty hook on a chain. Growling, Thrall blocked the chain with his left arm, the links wrapping around, and tore the chain away, as he had Snowsong veer right, and swung his Hammer at the abomination's hip. Bones broke and swollen flesh gave, and entrails spilled out. With a stupid stare, the abomination stepped onto its own intestines, and fell. Thrall smashed its head and took out another ghoul with the same swing.

Discarding the chain and wiping blood from his eyes, he pushed forward. Shandris was gone once more, lost in the teeming chaos. Cackling like carrion birds, two gargoyles bore down on a raider. The orc slashed the wing off one, but the other latched onto his back, tearing into muscles. The orc nearly lost his balance under the onslaught, when a fiery arrow skewered the demon-spawn. Cursing loudly, the orc tore the dead gargoyle from his back. Looking in the direction from which the arrow had come, Thrall spotted frost-blue fur.

"Warchief! Just in time" a familiar voice, haggard but melodic, called out.

"Priestess Whisperwind!" Thrall yelled back, immensely relieved to find the proud night elf alive and fighting, at least for the moment.

"FOOLS! ALL OF YOU, FOOLS!" The scream cut through the din of battle like a knife through butter, and Thrall saw the tall demon, brandishing whip and a sword smoldering like a furnace, stride forward, felling an unfortunate orc with a lash of its stinger-tipped tail.

"Warriors, follow!" he yelled, charging at the heart of matters.

"FOOLS, FOOLS, FOOLS!" the demon ranted on, trailing fire in the air with its sword. Despite everything Thrall felt a shiver run down his spine. The demon's mouth seemed to spew out words like it was a separate being, unconnected and untroubled by the fighting.

An orc scored a deep hit on the demon's calf, but the creature didn't seem to notice. The flaming whip bore down, and the orc's wolf was snagged around the hind legs, and pulled to the ground, yelping as the cord burned away skin and flesh. The rider was sent rolling, but was up again, unharmed.

Nets came down and wrapped around the demon's torso, trapping its sword-arm.

"THE HOLLOW ONE WILL TAKE US ALL!" the demon shrieked, flailing at the wolf-riders closing in on it. Flames erupted all over the demon's body, and the ropes were reduced to ash.

"You before us!" Thrall snarled, calling upon the Spirits of Water to raise a shield against the flames, and upon the Spirits of Fire to lend him aid.

_NOW!_

Snowsong crashed into the demon, bearing down with all the considerable weight of a dire wolf and an orcish Warchief in full armor. The demon buckled, and Thrall swung the Doomhammer at its chest, releasing the full force of the lightning.

The demon swayed on its feet for a moment, then collapsed, dead.

Without leader, and pressed in between the wolf-riders and Sentinels, the remaining undead scattered. Chattering and hissing, a tatter of gargoyles fled to the west. Thrall paid them no heed, knowing all to well that the Hollow One would know of this without hearing it from the mouths of those flying pests. He called back several battle-heated orcs, that wanted to give chase. They had driven back the enemy for now, and there were wounded to tend to, dead to gather and explanations to be had. He set Uthul to the task of searching the nearby forest for injured, and then went to find Tyrande Whisperwind.

He found the Priestess at the edge of the night elf village, kneeling at the side of a disemboweled Sentinel.

When he approached, she rose, violet hair fanning out like fine silk, the only part of her not ravaged by battle. Wrapped with dirty bandages, shoulders slumped with fatigue, and weariness etched into every feature, she nonetheless met him with head held high and eyes sharp as the winter sun.

"Warchief, I cannot begin to express my gratitude," Tyrande said quietly.

"I am glad you are well, Priestess," Thrall said in a measured voice, running a hand along a slash on Snowsong's neck. "But why did it come to this?" he asked, the strain of his voice betraying the anger he felt boiling beneath the still very real relief of seeing the Priestess alive. His people risked their lives for this. It could have been avoided, had the night elf kept to the plan.

"Warchief – Thrall, I take it Shandris did not explain."

"No."

For a moment, Tyrande seemed to shiver, like caught in a harsh wind only she could feel, then she nodded slowly.

"Truly, I did not wish for this, but I had no choice. The Kaldorei - my people - had need of us. And still do. I could spin you a tale right now, but I think it better seek out the source, and it might very well bring closure to this ordeal."

Thrall regarded the Priestess, suppressing an absurd notion to threaten to hold his breath until she stopped talking in riddles.

"I am glad to see you alive, Tyrande," he finally repeated, wiping blood from his face. Might better try to wring water from a stone, than bully a night elf.

She smiled, briefly. "There's someone I want you to meet."

"If you say so," Thrall complied ruefully.

Uthul approached respectfully. "We found seven dead in the woods," he told. "We're gathering the fallen over there." He pointed to one end of the clearing, and Thrall gloomily acknowledged.

"Thank you, Uthul. I'll be with Priestess Whisperwind."

With four raiders as escort, he followed Tyrande and a group of Sentinels into the village he had spotted so briefly before. In the heat of battle, he had taken it to be a night elf settlement. Now he saw that he had been mistaken. Though the buildings were formed of living trees, the woodworks were colored in reddish and purple, and huge veins seemed to pump beneath the uneven bark. The place extruded malcontent and corruption as much as any other place in this accursed forest.

Still, it was all he could do to hide his shock when the inhabitants of the village appeared. The first that stepped forth to greet them had a coat the color of wizened leaves, and stood on crooked legs ending in cloven hooves, like a goat's hind legs. Slender horns, also much like a goat's, curved backwards over the sleek, humanoid face, growing out right over the cat-like face. Tufted ears and a long, sweeping tail completed the creature, which stood at Thrall's height. He had encountered such creatures before, as enemies wielding dark magic and reeking of cunning malice and corruption. He could rather imagine Blackmoore declaring his undying admiration for orcish customs than seeing the Sentinels affiliating with, even defending, Satyrs!

Stunned, he just watched as Tyrande greeted the foremost Satyr in Kaldorei, and a hurried and anxious conversation followed, during which the goat-creature glanced repeatedly at the orcs. The Priestess even seemed to scold at one point, something Thrall had never heard before, and only added to his confusion. At least a dozen Satyrs had assembled, and were watching the scene and the newcomers with open resentment. None interfered, however. The Satyr Tyrande conversed was the slightest of the lot, Thrall noted.

In the end, the strange creature seemed to comply, and dauntingly enough, Tyrande placed a hand on its shoulder in a clearly comforting gesture, that, besides being rather unbelievable, convinced Thrall the creature was very young.

"This is Saih'Arihasoh, or Sunstealer," the High Priestess of Elune said quietly. "The tale of our enemy rests with her."

PS: I have a few comments for my readers, but I thought I'd put them in the end, and not spoil the simple beauty of the author's note. Here comes:

Dragoness: DON'T EAT MY STORY! Plz  I worked very hard on that chappy.

OzZCometh: Thank you for the nice words. I have tried to stay minimal in this story for a reason. If those floodgates are opened, you'll regret it. Trust me!

Tyraa Rane: I'm really glad you liked the chapter!

sniper1250: The soldier's name is now officially Leroy Jenkins! He'll be around from time to time. Last seen in the role as the winded messenger.

Seproth: How dare you make me elaborate upon my plot! Honestly, your comment gave me an idea. If it's good or bad, only time will tell…

Kyn: Where to begin? I've tried elaborating a bit in this chapter, but see my comment for OzZ. I'm going to delve into Jaina's hydrophobia, as it ties somewhat into the plot. I know my grammar sucks, but until I find someone more skilled in English, please bear with me.

Generally: A big, helium-filled THANK YOU. So we can all talk funny!


	8. Sunstealer's tale

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. Hey, I just found 20 ECTS points under my bed! (Works like mana, only brings money, not spells. Sadly.)

AN: This chapter kind of introduces my first (as far as I know) clearly non-canon character, although I could just pretend she was never mentioned before. And a cookie to whoever guesses who her father is.

And this chapter introduces chapter-names that actually make sense! Not that anyone could have figured out what insane measure I used before. Let's just say it had to do with Lord of the Rings.

Wraithsoldier: I hope the explanation is satisfactory o0

_Chapter 7: Sunstealer's tale._

"No worri'ing – it be safe 'nuff for crossin', Lady," the female troll, crouching at the edge of the swamp, said.

"Thank you, Riestha," Jaina told the scout, regarding the horrid-smelling greenish morass stretching wide in front of her with disgust. Coughing to clear her throat, she ordered the troops forward, and plodded after Riestha, doing her best to keep up with the troll's long, springy steps. Bare-footed and dressed in dark-splotched hunting-leathers and with her long ears poking through bluish hair, the troll struck Jaina as looking like a parodist might choose to depict a night elf. Wondering who of the two races that would take most affront by this, she turned to see Merrehen steer his massive warhorse Graysteel closer. A paladinic mount, Graysteel possessed intelligence, courage and loyalty far surpassing that of any ordinary horse. Whereas the unnatural surroundings had most of the other horses as skittish and nervous as if whipped, the gray stallion trotted calmly through the green slime, alert to Merrehen's slightest command.

"Miss Proudmoore, are you sure you will not ride with me?" the paladin inquired tactfully. Jaina shook her head. She preferred to trust her own two feet, and if they proved inadequate, then her magic. She whispered the words of a levitation spell, finding the mana well spend as her feet floated free of the morass to let her keep pace.

To her right, riding a dire wolf, Nazgrel sneered in orcish. Ignoring what was without doubt a derogative on human females and war, Jaina took the point, guided by the still-steady signal from the beacon crystal that she had endowed the Warchief with.

The rising sun had completely burned away the fog when Riestha hissed a warning. A spell on her lips, Jaina spotted a small group of dark shapes moving rapidly towards them across the mire.

"Wolf riders," Riestha said, and Jaina lowered her guard, though far from relieved. She counted only thirteen. Light be merciful, this could not be all there was left?

The raiders quickly reached them, and pulled to a stop. Both riders and beasts sported wounds, but they seemed mostly superficial. The leader, a male orc with a wiry build, short-cropped hair and a huge sword strapped to his back, approached Jaina.

"Lady Proudmoore," he said in faultless Common, his voice as sparse as a cloister cell. A bit surprised to be the one addressed, not Nazgrel, Jaina straightened. She knew this one by looks only, though his reputation had seeped into many a camp-fire talk.

"Captain Ye'trag, what has happened? Why are you so few?" she asked sharply.

In a few, precise sentences, the orc told of how the raiders had been ambushed by murlocs, and how his group had subsequent dealt with the fish-men and freed a few riders that had been ensnared.

"Which direction did the Warchief go?" Nazgrel asked after end explanation. Looking at the stretch of dark forest the wolf rider captain pointed out, Jaina nodded. Yes, it matched the signal from the beacon. Moving on, she found her self wishing that the stone could relay more than just directions.

Upon reaching dry ground once more, Jaina dispelled the levitation spell and allowed for a quick smile. The trail of the passing wolf riders was glaringly obvious. The bloated fungi covering the ground had been trampled into dripping piles, deeply rutted by huge paws prints.

Cautiously, the small army followed the trail of smashed undergrowth. They passed the ruins of a guardian tree, surrounded by brittle bones, and soon came upon signs of more recent fighting. The soil was churned up and rotten bodies were sprawled between the trees, still dripping vile fluids from deep cuts that could only come from the scimitars wielded by many wolf riders. A heavy silence hung over the grisly scenario, not a bird chirp or sweep of wind to rustle the leaves.

Calling for the troops to halt, Jaina looked to her companions.

"There's no threat here," Nazgrel scowled. "We'll do better to move on."

"Yes, Lady," Riestha agreed. "Only dead gon' dead again be here."

"Over here!" Merrehen called out. He had dismounted next to a ghoul with a raggedly split torso. Hurrying over, Jaina saw that the undead clutched a tuft of blood-matted white fur in a bony hand. More blood, darker and too fresh to spring from a reanimated corpse, was spattered on the ground and foliage. A trail of blood led into the forest, indicating that something heavy had been dragged away.

"Big feet, and bigger doggies. Green'uns have been don' this," Riestha said, after briefly scrutinizing the trail.

"They must have been victorious, then," Ye'trag concluded. "With your permission, Lady Proudmoore, I will call for them."

"Yes, do that," the Sorceress said with a tight expression.

The orc craned his neck and let out a long, sharp cry, more akin to a wolf-howl than anything else. His wolf joined in, and the eerie double-howl echoed in the twisted wood, making more than one human soldier shudder with memories of cold winters and starved beasts scraping on barred doors. Before long, an answering howl rose from somewhere to the east of them. Ye'trag listened, and turned to Jaina.

"They are well," he said, and Jaina let out a breath of relief. Then another howl was sounded, short and precise.

"An escort is being sent, Lady."

"Then let's go meet them, by the Light," Jaina said, heartened. Sidestepping the eviscerated ghoul, she jogged further into the Felwood.

Five wolf riders slipped out of the trees soon after. The leader, a young male orc in chain-mail and a guarded, but not unfriendly, appearance, swept a measured gaze over Jaina and Merrehen, bowed to Nazgrel and then saluted Ye'trag with great respect.

"I – Warchief. Way..." the orc began, and then abandoned the halting attempts at common and ranted off something in orcish to Nazgrel, and turned his group around.

"His name is Uthul of the Frostwolves," Nazgrel explained, scowling as he tried to follow a rapid exchange of words between Ye'trag and the newcomers, while he translated.

"He says that the Warchief and most of the wolf riders are well, and that the Priestess is alive. Also, there are important news to be shared. They are waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?" Jaina regarded Uthul with skepticism. Tyrande Whisperwind alive were good news indeed, but she was hardly thrilled by the prospects of more mysteries. The orc gave a small shrug, making it clear that he couldn't – or wouldn't - elaborate.

"Do you know anything about why Priestess Whisperwind crossed the river ahead of plan?" Jaina pressed, not wanting to let go of a source of information. Uthul was silent for a moment and then said a few short words.

"Loyalty," Nazgrel translated. "Loyalty and foolishness."

Uthul lead them to a large clearing and the bright sunlight revealed the aftermath of battle in all its bloody glory. Orcs, both mounted and on foot, stopped in their business of hauling dead bodies to greet the newcomers with cries of victory, eagerly answered by their comrades, and not a few human and dwarven voices.

Jaina quickly surveyed the grizzly surroundings. To her right rose a stinking pile of hacked-off limbs, bloated torsos and loose heads, the spoils of war. No normal animal would touch such a stinking heap, but in the Felwood, such restraints did not exist, and the pile was already alive with huge rats, while two greasy-feathered vultures fought over the open groin of a dead abomination. Opposite, as far away from the undead as possible, were laid out the motionless bodies of orcish warriors, and their mounts. At the far end of the clearing, she could see what looked to be a night elf village, the organic buildings shaded by the encroaching forest. Of Sentinels there were no trace, and neither of the Warchief, though the beacon told of his close presence.

"We'll set up a defensive position and see to the wounded. Uthul will take you to the Warchief, Miss Proudmoore," Nazgrel told her. Leaving Merrehen in command, Jaina was lead across the clearing and around to the other side of the corpse-pile, where she was met with a rather unexpected sight.

Thrall was kneeling next to a demon corpse, hacking away at the scaled tail with a large axe. Five white wolves, four of them mounted and one that Jaina recognized as the Warchief's own mount, waited nearby.

_Taking a trophy?_ she idly wondered. Thrall had not before partaken in the rather gruesome custom of taking body-parts as proofs of valor. As they approached, he dealt the ligaments a final blow, and rose to greet them, holding the hooked stinger he had just worked free in his left hand. A vile mixture of fat venom and crimson ichors dripped from the stinger, and more of ichors spattered the axe and his gauntleted hands, and suddenly the whole savage notion of a trophy fit very well.

"Well met, Miss Proudmoore," he growled.

"Warchief, I am glad to see you did not keep your promise," Jaina replied with a sincere smile. Finding Thrall and his wolf-riders mostly unharmed had served to curb her frustrations at this whole unraveling expedition.

"Yes. This one was not a pleasant find," he replied, giving the stinger a shake, sending droplets of venom flying.

"Did you meet up with Ye'trag Hearttickler?" he asked, concerned. Jaina assured him that the captain had freed all of the murlors' captives.

"That was well done, but praise must wait. We've dealt with the undead for now, but there's no telling how much time we have. Miss Proudmoore, please come with me. The Priestess is waiting."

He didn't mount up, but Jaina still felt absolutely diminutive, squeezed in between the Warchief and his wolf on the left side, and two raiders on the right.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Don't have half a bloody clue my self. The Priestess has risked her life and that of her Sentinels for Satyrs!" He spat out the last word, and shocked as she was by this information, Jaina easily understood this would further aggravate Thrall. Satyrs were night elves that had been corrupted by the Legion and willingly served the demons, fighting their former kin with glee. It had to be an all too painful remainder of the servitude and degradation of the orcish.

"What on Azeroth did Tyrande think of?" she muttered, and Thrall grind his teeth in reply.

They walked into the village and Jaina found herself torn between sadness and nausea at seeing how the living buildings had been twisted to nightmarish parodies of their former beauty. She saw none of the inhabitants, until they reached an open space in the middle of the village. Here, two score of the horned and furred Satyrs had congregated, and across from them, what had to be the remaining Sentinels. Many of the nigh elves were wounded, and leaned on their Sisters for support. But what Jaina found most disquieting was the lack of pride, of discipline. They had the looks of starved cats, feral and instinctive. Unpredictable.

Between the two groups, Tyrande Whisperwind stood, her saber-toothed tiger at her side, and next to her a Satyr with greenish fur, about a head lower than the night elf, and female by the look of the graceful body. In one hand, the Satyr held a long spear of what looked to be glittering, rough-facetted obsidian.

Jaina couldn't help but gawk briefly at the creature. She sensed no evil, but the Satyr's eyes were flat and emotionless like painted glass, regarding her idly like one might a fly. Shuddering, she turned to Tyrande. In contrast, the night elf smiled, and greeted her with warmth.

"As you requested," Thrall said, handing the stinger to the Satyr, who took it with a slowness that Jaina interpreted as satisfaction. She then turned to Tyrande.

"_Ithi-ank!" _

"Yes, now you must speak," the Priestess softly urged.

The Satyr looked at the night elf, then at Jaina and Thrall, like acknowledging their presence for the first time. She began to talk in a voice as cold and soft as melt water, and as she talked, she carefully tied the demon-stinger to the end of the obsidian spear with the sinews trailing from the end of the cut joint. Soon, Tyrande's translation seemed to merge with the Satyr's cold lilt, creating a strange double-tale of frightening proportions.

"I am Saih'Arihasoh, Sunstealer. Once I responded to a different name, in the language of my birth and descent, but it doesn't matter anymore. I bend my knee to a master of darkness and flame and I got drunk on blood more full of pain than a look into the sun. It brought me pleasures of a kind, and I have no regrets. A name is but a sound, and the night is as dark as ever, and the stars overhead are the same indifferent lights.

Until the new master came to these woods. The Hollow One he calls himself and he has demanded more than Archimonde-blessed-of-Sargeras ever did. The new master is like a swarm of bees in ones mind, darting to and fro, stinging and buzzing, dripping strange honey while he sucks away the nectar of my sweetest dreams. A whirlwind of razors and the soft velvet of rose petals. It was…confusing.

And then demons came, and when we knelt, they said that we must sacrifice one of our own. We did so with ease, and rejoiced in the spilling of blood, but soon, the demons returned, calling for more blood, and we did as commanded. But then they said that we must all go to the stakes. That we should tie boulders to our legs and throw ourselves into the deepest lake, that we should cut our throats while smiling, that we should play our nerves with knives of silver and dedicate our pain to our new master. We hesitated. Archimonde had promised us great powers in exchange for servitude and deeds to spread the might of the Burning Legion. How could we do that when we were dead and crippled?

When we asked of how this might further the Legion, the demons grabbed those nearest and smashed in their heads, and when they reached for the next, he fought back, and we all joined in, and drank the hot blood again.

When we were done, we had killed our new master's messengers, and somewhere in the back of my head laughter soared. You are doomed, it said, you have betrayed the blood-oath and you will die.

And so it was that the Priestess found us, and we fought together. And then the green-skins came, throwing down Rashgarroth and his minions. And then you pink-skins. We live by your intervention, and by that – and for a prize - I will tell you where you will find the new master."

Saih'Arihasoh went quiet, and looked straight at Tyrande Whisperwind. The Priestess' chiselled features went pale, and Jaina easily surmised that the mentioned prize could not be a pleasant one. She would have to ask the Priestess later. The night elf didn't look like she could shouldered much more alone.

"The new master holds court to the north of here, in a place called Irontree Woods. It is there that the last of the Legion gathers and grovels before the Hollow One."

The Satyr tied the last sinew and brandished the spear, now having the look of a sheepherder's crooked staff, before her face. "I have committed three-fold treason, for I was the one that prayed to Elune-Silvergrace, and led the Sentinels here, and I am the one that will walk you to the new master and tear out his heart." She swung the spear in a downward arch, and a sound like nails on slate, like a sword scraping on bone and a pig on the slaughter-bench, cut the air like a scythe. Jaina swallowed bloodied spittle from where she had involuntarily bit her tongue, and stared at the spear like it was a snake poised to strike.

"Why should we follow you, Saih'Arihasoh?" Thrall's resonant voice seemed even deeper in the wake of the horrible sound produced by the spear.

"By your own words, you are a traitor and a servant of demons. You might have rebelled against this insane creature called the Hollow One, but I have not heard you swear off Archimonde's evil! How can we know this is not a trap, or simply a deceit to get rid of an unwanted master?"

The Satyr looked at the Warchief for a moment, and then simply turned her head. Thrall's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he was about to take a step forward, when Tyrande interceded.

"Please, Warchief, listen to me. I placed us all at terrible risks by coming to the aid of the Flameflower-tribe, but it is not an act of insanity. The Satyrs are traitors all of them, and I am as appalled by them as you are. However, they are still of my blood, and –" her pale face flushed dark purple, "- you yourself have told me about a fallen warrior as close to you as a brother, who was redeem against his will, and still died honorably and free."

Thrall's face darkened as well, and then he held out his hand, palm up, to Tyrande.

"You are right, Priestess. It is never too late to reclaim honor, or die reaching for it. I will follow the Satyr's lead."

"And so will I," Jaina added. She badly wanted to ask a thousand more questions, but right there was no room for more words.

Tyrande Whisperwind let out a brittle sigh. "So it is done."

Orc, human and night elf crossed palms, and after a moment, a green-furred hand joined them. No room for words.

Thrall turned abruptly, breaking the oath-touch.

The crowd of Satyrs and Sentinels were parting to admit the passage of a single wolf-rider. It was Drek'thar.

The shaman had kept to the middle of the column while marching, obeying Nazgrel's concerned orders with what seemed to be good-natured humoring, handling the immense black wolf that served as his mount with supreme calmness, the disturbing and mocking intelligence that flickered in the wolf's pale eyes only enhancing the ancient shaman's aura of savage discipline and timeless wisdom. Now, as he rode closer, he seemed to have buckled under his age, more frail and bent than Jaina had ever seen him.

As was his wont, Thrall bowed to the shaman, and lend Drek'thar his massive shoulder as support with a humbleness worthy of any aspiring paladin.

"My old bones thank you," the old orc muttered, bowing to Tyrande and Jaina and even Saih'Arihasoh.

"I trust I am not intruding?"

"You are not, Elder," Thrall grumbled.

"Good." Drek'thar reached into his robes and withdraw a tiny bundle wrapped in rabbit fur. Tenderly, the shaman unwrapped the fur to reveal the colorful feathers of a robin, even brighter with fresh blood.

The ancient shaman laid the dead bird in Thrall's hand. The tiny yellow creature, cold and unmoving, laying in the huge, calloused palm somehow captured the loneliness in Jaina's own heart so well she had to look away.

"My Lord," Drek'thar began, in a voice filled with grief, "this brave little friend was a messenger from Sreta Thundercall. It is bitterly painful that I must tell you this. There has been an uprising at the logging camp." He paused, and Jaina thought that he might cry.

"Last night, a large group of warriors went berserk. They tore our sleeping women and children from their beds and killed them with their bare hands. They tore them apart, my Lord, and their eyes glowed red." Jaina listened, horrified. Sunstealer's tale of blood and demons and unfulfilled promises was frightening, but not part of her world. This was different, this was so much worse. The women and children had been innocents, and they had been slain in their sleep, without a chance to defend them selves. That they had been orcs didn't matter. She had been at the logging camp, where the Horde had left mates and offspring, those too young and too old to fight. She had seen the children play, and though their games might be more rowdy, their nature did not differ from that any human children she had met.

"They did not silence their victims, and the alarm was quickly raised. In the ensuing battle, some were slain, but more than thirty got away. They headed north, my Lord." Drek'thar went silent. Jaina hardly dared look at the Warchief, knowing well his undying dedication to his people. Still, the force of the grief that haunted his face shocked her. Before she could offer a word of sympathy, however empty that might seem, the grief gave way to a cold rage so powerful her mouth went dry. It was like every layer of warmth and living had crumbled, leaving only a pillar of ice and hatred behind.

"My Lord, what will you do?" Drek'thar asked quietly.

Thrall's answer carried like the sound of an axe being grind for execution.

"Tell Sreta to honor the dead with every blessing of the Elements and the Ancestors; tell her to offer them my eternal guilt for not keeping them safe, and to pray for their forgiveness. Tell them that their deaths will be avenged!" His words turned to a roar; fury, grief, guilt and denial all woven into a cord of such force it nearly drove Jaina to her knees. Wide-eyed, she saw Thrall raise the Doomhammer high above his head. White-blue sparks crackled around the mighty weapon, leaping along the shaft and outlining the Warchief's massive frame in thunder.

"BY MY FATHER'S BLOOD, BY EVERY ELEMENT AND SPIRIT, I SWEAR TO KILL THIS HOLLOW ONE, EVEN IF I HAVE TO GO TO THE END OF THE WORLD!"

He brought the Hammer down to smite the ground with an ear-shattering sound that set the earth to tremble.

Afterwards, everything seemed frozen. Only Thrall's ragged breath cut the silence. Satyrs, Sentinels, everybody stood transfixed, staring at the hunched form that had called down lightning to fortify his oath of revenge.

Then, slowly, Thrall rose.

"Tell Sreta that I forbid anyone to go in pursuit of those that have left. They have chosen side, and I will be damned if I will risk more lives to hunt down filth like that. I will deal with them accordingly, should they come our way. Tell her that she is her father's daughter, but that she cannot free us all like he did. Tell her that she need not prove anything." His voice was stony, like all strength had been bled out of him.

"And now I will have to go tell my warriors what has happened." He bowed, and walked away with Drek'thar, one hand resting on the back of his wolf, like seeking support.

Later, while the news of the massacre spread through the hastily-erected camp outside the Satyr village like the stench from the burning corpse pile, Jaina met with Thrall, a hastily patched-up Tyrande Whisperwind and a silent Saih'Arihasoh. Facing her fellow leaders of the alliance that brought Archimonde down, Jaina felt split down the middle. She had fought battles she could never have imagined, side by side with beings she couldn't have imagined either. Both stood head and shoulders taller than her, one twice as broad as her, green-skinned and tusked and brutish – every inch the scare-picture of an orc; the other of a race she hadn't know existed, violet-skinned and so graceful she could make Jaina feel inadequate with her mere presence. These strangers had accomplished the impossible, and yet it was now, after their alliance had proven it self, she suddenly nurtured doubts.

Thrall. He stood at one end of the outspread map, arms crossed and his face rigid with control, evidence of the profound change that had come over him. So cold. The rage caused by the uprising in the logging camp had forced out everything else, leaving only room for revenge. She grieved with him, and one part of her saw how fortunate his cold resolve would be in ending this mission; the other part was terrified by his lack of emotions and all-consuming zeal. She had seen one dear to her heart be taken over by his passion and twisted into a monster thereby.

It took a supreme effort to push her concerns back and concentrate on the matters at hand.

"The northern parts of these woods are ripe with caves and tunnels, and their extent has never been mapped. I worry that our enemy has taken advantage of these caves, and should some of the tunnels connect with the Barrow Dens, our enemy will be able to slip through our hands." The night elf stabbed her long finger repeatedly at the intricately-drawn map. The Sentinels had rushed ahead of plan, but they had not come empty-handed. Maps, supplies and magic that perhaps could tame a corrupted forest remained mostly unscathed, and even a few hippogriffs willing to further risk their lives, even though so many had been slain at the World Tree.

"Underground fighting will set us at a disadvantage, not least by demoralization." At this, he looked straight at Jaina. "My warriors have sworn my oath, and I trust they will breach the gates of Hell with me. How of your troops, Miss Proudmoore?"

He wasn't insinuating, he wasn't bragging, he was simply assessing things with a lack of passion that left Jaina speechless for a moment.

"My men are fine soldiers," Jaina said, "but they have already faced much hardship. I will not fault anyone for balking at this." Her one part found this paltry. Her other part wanted to blurt out that many of her soldiers were only farmers with a sword in hand. Either way, it was the truth.

"And you, Priestess?"

"You know the conditions of my people. The mind is willing, but the flesh…"

He nodded. "Then I suggest I go first, should it come to caves."

Jaina just shook her head.

"So the scouts will be send out now, and when we get closer, we have other means of scouring the area." Tyrande looked to Saih'Arihasoh, who said a few words.

"She had nothing left to offer. The call of the Hollow One came from the north, and the demon Rashgarroth confirmed this in his ramblings," Tyrande translated.

"Are we relying on the words of a demon?" Jaina broke in. She suddenly felt sick.

"We have no choice," Tyrande hissed, but she did look a bit uncomfortable.

"Oh good!" Jaina exclaimed. "Have any of you considered withdrawing for now, to better prepare?"

Tyrande glared at her. "Is that what you wish, Sorceress?" she spat. "To give the Hollow One time to bore deeper in, like a maggot in a wound?"

"I have not turned craven, Tyrande, but it has to be addressed." Jaina returned the night elf's gaze with as much calm as she could muster. She did not feel well at all, and she could feel cold sweat on her forehead. "We are being led around by our noses here, if you hadn't noticed."

"We might, but that is not to say it will not lead us to our foe," Thrall said.

"Yes, and no." Jaina shrugged helplessly. She couldn't fight a war on two fronts. "I just plead caution."

"We have no choice!" Tyrande had taken on an almost pleading quality. "I sense that the longer we tarry, the deeper the demons are digging in their claws. We must act now!"

"We are with you, Priestess Tyrande, do not worry."

"Come hell or high water… And must we fight underground, that's what we have to do." Jaina dried her face with her sleeve, having to swallow to keep from retching on the spot.

The most direct marching-route was chosen, as there seemed to be little chance of hiding their advance. The soldiers were briefed, and the fires lighted for supper, with hopes for a calm night.

Yawning, and feeling a lot better physically, Jaina concluded a discussion with Ennon Gemeye and Merrehen Gildhaft concerning supplies and strategies. The dwarf wished her a good nights sleep, and then, in a tone far removed from their usual banter, said : "I am sure Solena is fine."

"I pray to the Light you are right, Gemeye," the paladin replied wistfully.

"Aye, lad." Gemeye stomped off, leaving Jaina and Merrehen at the fire.

"What's wrong, Lady?" the paladin asked. He was touching his wedding ring with a thoughtful expression.

She hesitated. Jaina held Merrehen in high regard, but she was not glad to admit her doubts with him. Even though she was outright distrustful of the Warchief, she did not want to undermine the alliance in any way.

"The dissident orcs," she said, a half-and-half of truth and lies. "I want to know how the Horde will react if we meet them."

"They will slay them, Lady," Merrehen said quietly. "The orcs have shown their willingness to slay their own kind without hesitation."

He was referring to the red-eyed orc killed by Drek'thar after the Swift River collapse. He did not sound contemptuous, more supremely overbearing, and it convinced Jaina that she could not share her concerns.

"Nevertheless, I'm going to have a talk with Warchief Thrall," Jaina said, and rose. Merrehen gave her a sharp look.

"I see…"

"Merrehen, please…" Jaina bid her lip.

The paladin lowered his gaze. "Do as you must, Lady."

She left.

The mood in the orcish part of camp was tense, and every tusked face seemed to have taken on a harder, fiercer edge. Thrall did clearly not lie when he spoke of his warriors determination. Then, it would be the same if it had been the civilians send south after Stonetalon. But she had contacted Lord Ezeril Sundare, the leader of the civilians by means of a Crystalball of Communing, and they were fine, given the circumstances.

For once, Nazgrel greeted her with something approaching good-will. He lead her to a small area of rocky ground, pointed and left her with a gruff 'watch your steps, human,' that sounded more like encouragement than warning.

Thrall was sitting on a flat slab of stone, his back to her. His wolf was no-where to be seen, though she could not be sure in the darkness. She stopped a good ten paces away, anxious as hell, and called out his name.

Armor creaked as he turned.

"Miss Proudmoore, what brings you here?" He looked tired, but she noted the tenseness of his poise.

"Warchief, I have to talk to you," she said haltingly.

He gave her a disgruntled look. "Spit it out."

"I am sorry about your people's loss," she began.

"Thank you, Miss Proudmoore," he said indifferently, and Jaina cursed her meager diplomatic skills.

"Thrall, I am deeply saddened, but truth be told, that is not why I have come," she admitted, resorting to honesty.

"What, then?"

"You frighten me," she blurted out, slapping a hand to her mouth as soon as the words were out. But it did break the ice. Thrall's face fell with disappointment.

"Frightens?" He stood up, and made a sweeping gesture. "I frighten you?" Even at ten paces distance, he towered above her, all black armor and exaggerated features, and unbidden, she recalled the first time she had crossed paths with Thrall, son of Durotan, in the caverns below Stonetalon Mountain.

She had been shocked, more than frightened, when a group of savage-looking orcs appeared at the Prophet's podium, and she had been more than ready to fight. She'd be damned if she would let orcs ruin her chance of speaking with the man, whose words had convinced her to abandon her homeland and drag thousands of people along on a perilous trek for an unknown West! She'd been about to loose a blast of ice at the leader, a hulking creature clad in black plate and wielding a warhammer she'd be hard-pressed to just lift, when the Prophet appeared, and ordered them to lowed their weapons in a voice Jaina suspected only the mightiest of dragons would dare disobey. She had listened to the hooded man's story of demons and flames with a sick heart, and then, when he had called for humans and orcs to cooperate, she had cried out in disbelief, actually the first thing she and the Warchief had agreed upon, she recalled with a ghost of a smile.

It was a preposterous request. To ally with the creatures that had razed the mighty kingdom of Azeroth, nearly brought Lordaeron and the Alliance to its knees, hacked, raped, and plundered their way across the world!

And then, as she considered the staggering challenge of driving back the Burning Legion, demons capable of shattered the magical might of the Violet Citadel, Jaina found that it was the unexpectedness of the request, more than the request it self, that had her protest. Slowly, she had turned and looked at the so-called Warchief, and she had been intrigued, despite it all, by the sharp and scrutinizing eyes that had met her gaze. Heavily muscles and with a face only a mother could love, yes, but he also radiated a discipline and resolve that had her think of Uther Lightbringer, blasphemous as it was. Perhaps she had been gullible. He was the first orc she had seen up close, and with his mastery of the common language and authority she could not connect him with her father's bloody tales or the pathetic creatures she had once seen scrambling in the filth of a prison camp. But as she had later found out, Thrall was unique amongst his race, however reformed the Horde might be.

Jaina swallowed.

"No," she said.

"You're not making any sense, human," Thrall growled impatiently.

"Yes, I mean no! Thrall, believe me, I did not come here to babble." She gave him a helpless look. "You've turn cold," she said. "I fear the way hatred and revenge have filled you."

"Are you saying my peoples suffering should not be revenged?" he snarled, and Jaina instinctively held up her hands in defense.

"NO!" she protested. "Never! It was a despicable deed, and a cowardly one, and I will gladly help you send the Hollow One back to Hell!"

Thrall looked at her like she was a stranger, and then he let out a sharp laughter.

"By the Spirits – this is not about me at all, is it, Sorceress?"

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Jaina didn't even feel the knees buckle, but suddenly she was on the ground, dry-heaving and sobbing.

"How could you! How could you do it! Why…"

"Jaina, come." A large hand guided her up, and she found herself sitting on a rock facing Thrall, who watched her with mixed concern and apprehension.

"Who caused you so much pain?"

And before she knew it, she was spilling everything, her love-affair and break-up with prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron. The plague, the slaying of the citizens of Stratholme, his obsession with the Dreadlord Mal'Ganis that made him set sail for Northrend. Everything.

"It was the last I saw of him," she finished, wiping away tears and rather undignified blowing her nose into her hand, wiping it on the rocks.

"I am sorry for you, Jaina. No one should experience people they care for turn against them," he said softly. She simply nodded. "I still love him," she whispered. She felt terribly spend, but in a good way. The thorn in her soul that was Arthas had come a bit closer to come out. A bit.

"But understand that I am not this prince Arthas. For the murder of innocents, there cannot be any mercy. I will repay every ounce of pain, and that cannot be changed."

Jaina slowly nodded. The past was the past, hard as it was to accept.

"You will -," she began, and then nearly fell off the rock when something breathed hot air down the nape of her neck.

"Rhroekeiz! Celag!" Thrall commanded, and the next second his wolf loped around the rocks and sat down at his side.

"Your wolf?" Jaina said lamely, trying to calm her heart.

"Her name is Snowsong."

"A – female wolf?" Not in a million years had she thought the Warchief's fierce battle-companion was female.

"They come in both varieties, just like all of us," he said, amused.

"I know," she said a bit tersely. "You know, I was _so_ close to blasting her out of her hide?"

"You would never have gotten to it," he told her.

They were quiet for a while, letting Jaina begin to contemplate what she had done – had she just bared her heart to the Warchief of the Horde, an orc she had known less than two month? By the Light, she was a messed-up little girl!

"You will have your revenge," she said, picking up the thread. "Just – please let me – us - be a part of it."

He looked at her gravely. "Do you know what you are asking?"

"Yes."

"I can't allow that, Jaina. The oath is sacred. To let a human partake will demean it. The Horde must take care of it's own."

It hurt, but she had to accept it.

"Don't worry, Jaina, I have also seen what it means to loose your self. I will not let hatred win me over." He bared a few teeth in a smile: "It's not that I have anything against you humans, otherwise."

And it's Light's own truth I don't get along with all of your people. You are one of a kind, Thrall," she retorted.

"It's not what I like to hear most, Jaina, but I understand. I am not as my people are most. I was raised by humans, but it was orcs that showed me the true measures of life. I'm a cultural mongrel." He ran a hand along one of his braids. "Why must it be so damn difficult?"

She dared a smile. "Truth be told, I prefer books at any time. They don't talk back, they always have something interesting to offer, and you can enjoy them at your own pace. And they don't betray their country and run off to the end of the world."

"Books are good," he agreed. They sat in silence for a while.

"What will you do if we come across the dissidents?"

"Dissidents? Call them traitors as they are. We will fight them, as any other enemy, unless they show remorse." He looked down at her, showing his teeth in a rather intimidating smile.

"Don't walk on egg-shells around me, Jaina. We should know by now that things turn ugly if we are not honest with each other."

"Diplomacy never was my strong side. Ask my father any day."

"Should he come my way, I certainly will," came the dry reply.

Suddenly, Jaina could not suppress a grin. The notion was simply too ludicrous.

"Oh yes. You orcs have a very special place in the heart of the honored Admiral Proudmoore."

"Right next to bubonic plague, I'm sure." He held out his hand. "Friends, Jaina Proudmoore?"

"Friends?" She said the word slowly, rolling it on her tongue. It was not unpleasant, though not a term she was terribly familiar with. Friends? Airin had been her friend, and he died when the Swift River rose. Arthas had been her lover, but even when that came to an end, their relationship had been too fraught with courtesies and insinuations of what had been, for her to call it friendship. And Kael'thas…? Talk about a mirror darkly.So why not call an orcish Warchief a friend?

"Friends," she said, touching her palm to his.

11


	9. Fire

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard.

A/N: I updated… Ok, if any of my old readers are still alive, I hope you like this. And to anyone new, enjoy.

_Chapter 8: __Fire_

The powerful wind pushed the rain into nearly horizontal cascades, beating a relentless staccato rhythm against the orc's black plate armor. He was standing on a high shelf of rock jutting out over a well-worn path, bordered on one side by uneven rocks and on the other side by thickets of bone-pale, bulbous oaks. A white wolf, whose thick fur was plastered to her lean body, stood at his side. The orc scrutinized the path below with narrow eyes, trying to penetrate the sheets of grey down-pour and fog by will alone. A sudden gust slapped a clot of coarse black hair that had worked free of one of his braids, against his forehead, obscuring his vision completely. Grumbling, he pushed the hair back with a large hand, wiping water from his face in the process, although it was a futile gesture in this kind of weather.

"Damnable gruel," he muttered. The wolf suddenly issued a low growl, and the orc turned with a grace and speed sharply contradicting his massive frame. A troll, rain beading on her well-oiled hunting leathers and her bluish hair greased into a comb no amount of rain could soak, slipped out of the trees.

"De caravan be closin' in, Warchief," she reported, snickering impishly. "They just passed de big cows."

"Good," the orc replied, grimacing at the choice of words, but knowing well that a reprimand was useless with this particular troll. "Get the word down the line, Riestha. And for the sake of the Elements, I want that necromancer alive! Not as someone's dinner!"

The scout broke into a wide grin, so rambunctious that she and her mate, Brehkyn, could have switched heads with none the wiser.

"De restranin' not comes eezy to my kind, sweetie." She disappeared back into the forest, silent as a shadow, leaving Thrall to gnash his teeth in annoyance. Riestha was one of the best scouts to come his way, and one of the only ones capable of gauging the mood of this bloody place, probably because she walked a thin line between sanity and straight out craziness her self, but her glaring disregard for authorities was a very sore spot.

"This is no game," he muttered, and then called Snowsong and mounted up. He wrapped his fingers around the shaft of his warhammer, taking no relish in the way the scarred metal fit his calloused grip.

Behind him, ghost-like in the pouring rain, a score of orcish warriors followed his lead and readied their axes and swords, faith in the Spirits, not demonic madness, warming their blood and hearts for battle. As it should be.

As promised, the wait was not long. The smell of decay crept through the rain, and the wolves licked their teeth and snorted at the unnatural barrage of their senses. Soon after, the sound of shuffling footfalls could be heard, and then two huge and lumpy shapes waddled into view. Digging his fingers into Snowsong's thick fur, Thrall offered a last prayer and held out his hand.

Ghouls followed the abominations like broken-backed monkeys, and then, he saw it. Bend and dressed in dirty and tattered robes, the figure sloshed through the mud with even less grace than the ghouls. If not for the smooth-skinned hands dangling from the sleeves, and the cloud of breath in front of the cowled face, the figure would hardly merit any attention. But this was a living, blood-warm human in the midst of death. _Necromancer._ Thrall was not sure if there was anything that disgusted him more in this world.

Behind the necromancer more ghouls could be dimly seen, clutching ropes in their hands. What they were dragging was lost in the grayness, but the scouts had Thrall well-informed. There should also be around ten crypt fiends skittering out of sight, as high a number as they had encountered in one place during the last weeks. He was not overly concerned, however. Again and again, the spidery creatures had proven no match in close combat with skilled warriors. Their exo-skeletons shattered with satisfying crunches under a well-aimed axe-blow. No, with Tagar closing the rear and Sentinels sharpening their claws in the thicket this should be a flea-picking.

The abominations passed underneath him.

Thrall lowered his hand in a sharp gesture, and pressed his knees to Snowsong's flanks.

"ATTACK!"

Howling, the white wolf leaped over the edge and plunged down the slope in a shower of loose dirt and stones. On both sides of the path, warriors burst from their covers, each to their own cry of challenge, and scrambled forward.

Snowsong hit flat ground and veered to the left. By sheer momentum, she bowled over one abomination, and then plowed into the ghouls, ripping and tearing. In an instance, they were through, and towered over the human. The necromancer lifted his head, and a pair of pale eyes stared straight at Thrall. There was no panic, no fear, and even caught up in the rush of battle, Thrall shuddered.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed two raiders closing in fast, both with nets in their hands. It was a simple plan, stunted almost. Distract the human, courtesy of a charging Warchief, and knock him down. Fast, clean and simple. Around him, the clamor of battle rose, and he took it in, gauging and assessing the progress of the ambush with instinctive ease. It was going well. The cries of nightsabers were triumphant, and the stench of dead meat was increasing as new wounds were cut and bloated organs spilled.

The first raider threw his net. And then everything went to Hell.

The necromancer jerked, and flung out his arms, uttering a single, shrill sound. Two jets of green light erupted from his palms, one cut through the net and engulfed the raiders, the other literally exploded in Snowsong's face.

The wolf bucked, _shrieked_, like nothing Thrall has ever heard before, and through their shared bond came pulses of pain so intense it felt like his muscles were being shredded from his bones. For a moment, the whole world was red, and then it was over. He blinked, as the outside pressed back into his skull. The necromancer was gone, and in the mud were four husks of blistered flesh and pus-dripping bones.

He let out a roar of impotent rage, barely registering that Snowsong was twitching under him. Jumping to the ground, he swept the raging battle with a furious gaze.

"Where did you go?" he yelled, sweeping left and right at random, sending ghouls flying.

"Warchief!"

He turned to the sound, and very nearly took the head clean off Riestha's shoulders. The troll fell back, head cocked to one side and eyes narrow. There was blood in the corner of her mouth, but not on the long dagger held lightly in one hand.

Breathing hard, he lowered the hammer, and stared at the troll like he had never seen her before.

"What?!" he asked, exasperated.

"Top of de sled," she said, pointing down the path.

Forcing down the anger, Thrall followed the direction. He could not make out anything, but he had to admit that Riestha's eyes were better than his own.

One of Snowsong's hind legs gave out under her, and the wolf collapsed into the mud with a whimper. A thread of plea sneaked into Thrall's mind, and he was momentarily torn between two needs.

_Go! _he urged, and somehow Snowsong hauled herself back up, and staggered away. He did not like to abandon her, but getting the necromancer was the greater need."Riestha, can you get him?" The troll grinned.

"Go."

She was gone, slithering through the fighters like an eel. With the matters out of his hands, he turned his attention to the fighting. A crypt fiend, fleeing a Sentinel and a hulking bear, came right at him. Squaring his feet in the mud, Thrall punched. His gauntleted fist smashed through the mottled exo-skeleton, driving his arm into the demon to the elbow. Mandibles clicked and the crypt fiend hissed and trashed, and then fell silent. With a grimace, Thrall pulled out his fist in a spray of ichor.

He turned his face to the weeping sky. The rain washed his face clean, and for one moment he felt good.

* * *

Tagar crushed the still-wagging tongue into the mud with a well-placed stomp, and just for emphasis brought his totem down upon the spot. Resting his arms on the massive piece of wood, the tauren looked contently at Thrall.

"Good battle."

"I wish I could agree," the Warchief replied darkly. He could not shake the picture of the two raiders that had been reduced to pulp. It was a direct result of his misjudging of the necromancer's strength, and in hindsight, the plan seemed just foolhardy.

Tagar flicked his ears. "We all agreed it was the best course of action." Surmising that he heard a note of reprimand in the bull's voice, Thrall frowned. Did he have to rub it in? They had agreed, but he was the commander, and could have vetoed the plan at any moment. Annoyed, he turned away from the tauren. Of the motley flock that had dared oppose the Burning Legion, the taurens alone seemed unperturbed. At least that was what he gleaned from their stoic, liquid-eyed facades. How long was it since he had had words with Tagar, other than relaying orders? As they ventured deeper into Ashenvale, the taurens had withdrawn from the fires that cooked the misshapen prey they had been forced to rely on as the supplies thinned. Come to think of it, what _did_ they eat? The plant life was as diseased as the animals, and it took a kodo's worth of hardgrain to fill the stomachs of a squad of taurens. Was there some secret they had not been told, some inbred magic of the Earth Mother they could all have profited from?

"Tagar…" he began, but was cut short by the arrival of the youngster, Grizh.

"Warchief, the troll wants to know what she is to do with the human." Clamping his jaws on an angry reply, Thrall steeled himself and turned away from Tagar and focused on the young Frost Wolf. Yes, the necromancer. The plan. The main purpose of this raid.

"Show me to them," he said brusquely, taking his leave of Tagar with a stunted nod.

Grizh wisely kept his mouth shot as he led the Warchief past the sleds that had made up the bulk of the caravan. They were crude things build out of thick branches and lashed together with ropes and sinews. Hides were stretched tight across the sleds to keep the loads from spilling out. Unfortunately, the hides made for sparse covers, and rotten flesh bulged out through the gaps, and here and there a slack limb or torso dangled to the ground. The spoils of war, indeed. A couple of druids were poking at the dead flesh, discussing in low voices. When Thrall walked by, they fell silent. He favored them with a long look.

"Shouldn't you be tending to the living?" he asked sharply in Common, a language these particular night elves did not understand. The druids cringed, but did not move. Sneering, Thrall passed them by.

"There, my lord," Grizh said.

A small group of people had gathered around a flat boulder off to the side of the path, where the ground was not so muddy. Squatting upon the boulder was Riestha, and prone in front of her was the necromancer. His dirty cloak was pulled back and wrapped tightly around his torso and arms.

She had gotten him, all right…

"He better be alive!" Pushing through the crowd, Thrall held out his arms in exasperation.

"Oh, he be full of it, de little scamp." As proof, Riestha shook the man's head, and was rewarded with a choked groan.

"Alive and talking!" Thrall yelled.

Riestha had shaken the human by his tongue, extended out as far as it would go, because the long nail of the troll's index finger was impaled clean through it.

"No words, no spells, 'Chief." However, there must have been something in Thrall's stance that cowed even her, for she pulled her nail out and even put a hand between the human's head and the boulder.

"Get someone that knows something about wounds down here," he ordered Grizh. "And you, stay!" Riestha leaned back with a smile as bright as a newly-minded coin.

"The rest of you, get useful and start cleaning up here!" People slunk away quickly, only too happy to comply with the order and get some distance to their riled-up Warchief.

Thrall crossed his arms and stared down at the unconscious human. The face that had been hidden underneath the ragged hood was hollow-cheeked and dirty, but otherwise hale and healthy and pink-skinned. Like a frigging babe at the breast; a trickle of blood, like milk, ran from the corner of his mouth. And right now, the human was as precious as a firstborn son – he was the only living, and non-demonic minion they had come across, with his mind in seemingly working order. As much as Thrall itched to shake every possible piece of information out of this sad piece of evil-doer, he had to contend with drumming his fingers on his armor.

* * *

"Up to your old tricks, eh girly?" Hai'khin rasped, pointing a long, black fingernail at Riestha, who scowled at the witch doctor.

"Heh, but you never did a trick I be not able to do better."

The witch-doctor, tall even for a troll, pinched the still-unconscious human's mouth open, and dropped in a glob of some foul-smelling salve. Closing the mouth again, he tied a piece of linen around the human's head to keep the jaw shut.

"That should have 'im feeling all goody again. De talking, however, I be guessing takes another kind of medicine." He eyed the Doomhammer sharply.

Thrall snorted. For all his bluster, Hai'khin was a true healer – adverse to any kind of bloodletting, even in an enemy. Where he had once cherished this rare trait, now it was only a source of annoyance.

"That is none of your concern," he said bluntly, drawing a purely incredulous look from the witch-doctor.

With a heave, he slung the necromancer over his shoulder and turned to a night elf that had slipped up to him while he waited for the healer to arrive.

"Bundle up the wounded and send them back as fast as you can. Burn the sleds."

"We will need oil for that, Warchief," the night elf protested. "This place is wetter than the bottom of Lake Mystral."

That did it.

"Must I do everything myself?!" In one fluid movement, he unhooked the Doomhammer from his belt, flung it into the air, and called lightning.

It didn't come. For one, terrible moment, Thrall was alone, lying on a cold stone floor, amongst rotten straw and less savory leftovers, and there was pain and despair and no will and no power to better himself. No fabled armor, no feared Hammer, and the only kinds of Elements he felt were moist stones and reeking, stale air. He recoiled, and then he felt the warmth, like a torch had been held close to his skin. Eagerly, he grasped for it.

He was back, and flames leaped from his heart, roared up the veins of his right arm and blossomed from his fingers to twine about the Doomhammer and finally arch across the sky and strike each of the sleds in a red-orange inferno. Dead flesh, bones and hides and wood turned to ash, light as feathers. The rain beat it down into the mud, giving it back to the world.

The silence was complete.

Thrall lowered his arm, and breathed out.

"I don't think we need the oil," he said. He had not thought it possible for a night elf's eyes to go any bigger, but here was the proof.

"Elune… I think Lake Mystral just ran dry…" the Sentinel whispered thinly. The feral need he had become used to seeing on the delicate faces of the kaldorei had finally been replaced by something else, and that thing was fear.

Thrall turned around, taking in the stunned expressions, the frozen postures. There was shock, and fear and admiration, and in some of his warriors a raw glee that tugged at his mind, but it was only a faint whisper to the overwhelming feel of satisfaction that coursed through him. This was _doing,_ and there was nothing to equal it.

Hefting the necromancer, he barked: "Back to camp! Wounded in the middle of the column." With a self-possessed smirk, he strode down the path, and the sound of footsteps behind as people formed into line broadened the smirk into a grin.

* * *

The guards at the entrance did not let their weapons down even as Thrall hailed them, and when he passed by them and into the camp proper, the tense atmosphere was evident.

"Good to have you back, my lord. We saw the smoke. Demons?" Curt and concise, Ye'trag Hearttickler rose from the central fireplace, where he had been sitting with a smattering of orcs and night elves, and a lone human, that for some unfathomable reason seemed quite relaxed. Then again, Pynesco Sundare never struck him as the most complex of beings.

"No need to worry. The only fire burning today is one serving me." He meant it. The long walk back to camp through the still-falling rain, a twitching, throat-moaning human on his shoulder and a limping, bloody-faced Snowsong at his side, had mollified him somewhat, and set him to thinking. Fire was the most capricious of elements, and unlike wind, water, earth and even lightning, it was not a thing of the body. If anything, it lived in the crevasses of the mind, in the soul and in the heart. And as such, fire was a thing to be both cherished and feared.

_Why do you think demons wield fire?_ Drek'thar had once asked him, and when Thrall had stated what he thought was obvious - the pure destructiveness of fire - and his old teacher had laughed, and shaken his head, and called him a child. Confused, but intrigued, Thrall had waited for the shaman to stop amuse himself at his expense, and explain. _Fire is the stuff of dreams, of desires and lusts. Fire fills the veins when anger rules, and the heart when love is realized. Even hatred, however cold it can feel, is a flame. Demons are creatures of hunger and base feelings, Thrall._ Drek'thar had looked at him, blind eyes twinkling. _Now, why do demons wield fire?_ He had gotten the right answer the second time around.

Today, _he_ had wielded fire, and even though he had dwelled on every moment of the burning, he could not find anything amiss, except the ease of the calling. The quick and complete destruction had been his intention, and what other Element could accomplish that? Fire was about need, and his need had been taken care of.

"Then the mission was a success," Ye'trag concluded, looking pointedly at the unconscious human on Thrall's shoulder, and if his stance was more rigid than usual, Thrall did simply not notice.

"Yes. Now, I have to take a little chat with this guy," – he let the necromancer glide from his shoulder and into his arms – "so I'll leave the camp to you."

Ye'trag bowed, and went to work, shouting at the soldiers. Efficient as ever. It was a pity he was no longer leader of the raiders. Ye'trag's faithful Rust had been trampled and torn by a pack of felhounds just before the allies split up, and without a wolf one cannot very well lead wolf-riders. Thrall had reinstated Nazgrel, send him and bulk of the mounted warriors with Jaina Proudmoore to comp the flatter, not so densely forested southern parts of Felwood, and only taken a score or so with him into the highlands. A pity, really. Ye'trag had a head for strategy that had meshed very well with the maneuverability of the raiders. Nazgrel was utterly loyal, but stubborn as a mule sometimes.

"Sundare, you better come along for this one," he said, turning. The red-haired human, his paladinic armor as spotless as the day the priest had been done with blessing it, rubbed his hands together.

"I wouldn't mind teaching that honor-less scoundrel a few tricks of the Light, Warchief. Lady Proudmoore will be delighted to know of this."

"I have no doubt." For a paladin, Sundare was easygoing and malleable, and as good a choice for leading the human contingent as Thrall could wish for. If only the man had not been so infatuated with his lady Sorceress. As the paladin began to relax among his new fighting-companions, Jaina Proudmoore's name cropped up with a regularity that had become irksome.

"You better find another place to rest," he gently told Snowsong. The wolf whined, and simply plopped down on her belly close to the fire. Thrall gave her a concerned scrutiny. Despite a thorough healing, blood continued to ooze through her fur. It was like her pores were weeping blood, and while it did not pain her, it sapped the wolf's strength and she moved like she had sand in her joints. Thrall glancing from Snowsong to the necromancer. It was getting frighteningly obvious that they had not been spared the ravage of the spell. Somehow, the necromancer had delayed the effect, and it had resisted all tries to dispel it. He would pull the man's intestines from both ends and string him up a tree before he let Snowsong share the fate of his trusty raiders.

"Let us see if he is feeling better," he said icily, moving towards his own shelter.

Inside the relatively spacious hut – deadwood was not hard to come by – Thrall threw down the human on the pile of furs that served as his bed, knelt down and gave him a rough shake.

Eyelids fluttered, and with another impatient shake, the man's eyes snapped open and he looked around wildly. When his gaze settled on Thrall, he blinked, and then his face stilled. Again, the Warchief found him self faced with that odd calm that had disturbed him back at the raid. He was going to enjoy smashing through it.

"I am Thrall, son of Durotan, Warchief of the orcish Clans," he said in articulate Common. The words brought a flicker of recognition to the man's face, and Thrall nodded.

"Good, we understand each other. Now let's see if you can talk me out of taking your miserable life." He loosened the linen bandage, and threw it into a corner.

"You are a prisoner of war, human, and I want some answers."

The man worked his jaws, and pushed back his lips. A greenish crust clung to his teeth, and a string of saliva ran down his chin. "Think me a traitor?" he slurred. Apparently, Hai'khin's medicine had been numbing as well as healing.

Thrall leaned forward, until his tusks were inches from the human's face.

"No, I believe you a coward," he said coldly.

The man did not flinch. "You have no power over me, son of Durotan. I have embraced death and pain, and I have picked my path. And quite frankly, your breath stinks." He closed his eyes, and turned his head to the side.

Thrall laughed. A short, hoarse outburst, and then he backhanded the human across the face. He did not use all of his strength, but the effect on the man's face was still devastating. The fine-boned nose flattened with a crunch, both lips split open and one cheek was gashed. Blood sprayed with the movement, and dripped from Thrall's fingers as he pulled his hand back. The man did not utter a sound, however, so maybe his talk of pain and death had truth to it.

"Do you deny using magic to disturb the peace of the dead?"

With split lips, numb jaws and a newly-healed tongue, the man did not even try to speak. He just shook his head.

"Traitorous pig!" It was Sundare, whose presence Thrall had nearly forgotten about. Now the paladin suddenly rushed forward, and laid a hand on the prisoner's chest. A soft, golden glow, the very antithesis of the sickly green light conjured by powers of necromancy, emanated from Sundare's hands and like sand being smoothed by waves, the wounds closed and bones knit together.

"I thought I recognized you!" Rising, Sundare pointed an accusing finger at the necromancer.

"What are you blabbering about?" Thrall asked sharply.

"That bag of filth – that Light-forsaken whore-son! Warchief, look at him. That is Airin Sekerion, one of Lady Proudmoore's close friends and a mage of the Violet Citadel. This is treason of the highest degree!"

"At ease, paladin." Shocked, he showed down Sundare's hand. "Don't you humans learn to shut up in front of enemies?" Sundare flushed, and ran a hand through his red hair.

"I – off course. I was out of line. But this will be a terrible blow…" _To Lady Proudmoore, I know._

_Treason._ The word seemed to burn down through his mind like acid, staining all it touched with sickening foreboding.

Thrall looked down at the necromancer. Features restored, the man was quite young, with delicate features that spoke of nobility, and those disturbingly calm eyes, but the Warchief was quite certain he had never seen the human before today. That however, was no consolation. He wasn't well acquainted outside of Jaina's circle of officers, and one magic-using human was still only one human of thousands in a throng of ragged refugees.

"You are absolutely sure of this?" he asked slowly.

"On my life, that is Airin Sekerion," Sundare said quietly.

Then the course was set.

Like a striking snake, Thrall slapped a hand over the prisoner's face, in the process flattening his nose once more, flung a skin over him and then rolled him over twice, bundling him up as tight as a sausage. Having blocked the human's ears and eyes as best he could, he turned to Sundare.

"Get messengers to Lady Proudmoore and Priestess Tyrande. I want them here quick as possible. No details, but make sure they understand this supersedes all."

The paladin nodded, and hurried out of the hut.

The light in the hut was bad, grayish-brown and lumpy with shadows, and the sounds of the camp seemed very far away. With the paladin out of the way, it was very easy to imagine that he and the twisting bundle on the dirt floor were all alone in the world. Looking down at the man, the image of the raider being flayed alive by black magic flashed through his mind again, but strangely, it did not entice the earlier fury, only pity. If Sundare was correct, the human, this Airin, was an amalgam of two things utterly repulsive to Thrall's very nature - the necromancer's sacrilegious disregard for life with the traitor's forsaking of honor and loyalty. He knew that he should hate the man, but it was as if his soul was out of breath.

He fingered the edge of the skin, smoothing the fur.

A friend of Jaina's? Was that not what Sundare had said? Friendship and great powers. What ever could get a man such gifted to abandon all and serve evil? Thrall knew the answer, bleak as it was, though he would rather that he didn't. It spoke of the darkness of even the purest of hearts, of lurking desires and secret fires, and things that even he would deny instead of face. There were paths into every mind, bright as well as dark.

The human's struggles had grown a bit more animated, giving the bundle the appearance of a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat. Probably hard at breathing in there. He began to ease the skin back, and then stopped. A tiny voice had whispered in his ear, a shiver of nerves, and he found that he did not disagree. Smiling a very strange smile, the Warchief let go of the skin, and instead hefted a large stone from the hut's fireplace and lifted it.


	10. He needs me

Disclaimer: Warcraft is just as much mine as I'm blonde and married to Johnny Depp.

A/N: Another chapter down. I hope to round out this story with another chapter, and an epilogue.

_Chapter 9: He needs me_

_Even in decay, the rose was beautiful… Standing on the window-sill in a slender vase of finest crystal, the angled rays of the setting sun made the dark, crumpling petals glow a deep, sultry blue._

_"A__h, Jaina, why have you not got rid of that?" a refined, haughty voice asked. _

_"You said its color reminded you of my eyes," the young woman answered, a tad reproachful. _

_"And it did, my dear. But now it would only be grave insult to even dare compare this withered stick to your wonderful eyes." Tall and lithe, with grace and poise to shame a hawk, he rose from the couch, went to the window and ran a long finger over the __petals of the rose._

_"Let us see if I cannot remedy it."_

_ He whispered a word of power, and there was a flash of white light. When it faded, the rose was transformed, appearing as fresh as the day it had been plucked in the Royal Gardens in far-away Silverymoon. _

_With a flourish, he held out the rose to her. _

_Blushing prettily, she took the flower, noting how cold it was against her naked skin. _

_"Kael, I cannot accept this," she protested, though her clutching grip belied her words. Ever-observant, he smiled. That maddening, condescending smile that always rubbed her the wrong way, and set her spine to tingling. Being with him was like trying to run in two directions at once. __One part of her rejoiced in the attention of this handsome and powerful man, and another part wanted nothing more than to show him her own power, to humble him and have him praise her._

_She knew well that he could read her as an open book, and lowered her recently-prized eyes to favor her delicate, silk-stitched slippers with a long look. _

_"Ah, but have I ever taken no for an answer," he said softly. It was not a question. Had it ever been?_

_When he had placed the rose in her window, upon his long-planned arrival to attend the Summer Festival, he had told her the story of the Dar'anethelen, or Heaven's Mirror. The roses grew only in the Royal Gardens of the Sunstriders. Not because the flowers were a royal privilege, but rather because they, in some way he had not wanted to elaborate on, held great value to the elven people, and as such the safekeeping had naturally fallen to the Royal House. The roses bloomed only by night and in the most vibrant, shimmering tones of blue, for which they were named. _

_The rose was a pledge of things she dared not dwell too deeply on. _

_"Jaina…" His hand moved to cover hers, squeezing ever so gently, just enough to make the thorns prick her skin with the lightest of pains. His face was very close, and his golden hair spilled down to mingle with her own pale locks, and the colors were as alike as coming from one head. His lips touched hers, and she felt a shiver of nerves, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the rose was no longer blue, but glistening like ice, like diamonds…_

Jaina sat up, breathing raggedly. Her heart was beating frantically, ecstatically, in her chest, and the dream seemed to cling to her like winter's first thin crusting of ice. Trembling, she lifted a finger to her lips and she was not surprised to find them cold to the touch, even when the memory of his kiss burned still.

"You don't look to have had a pleasant sleep, Lady."

With sudden shame, Jaina slapped both hands into her blanket-covered lap, and stared at the elven woman that seemed to have appeared out of thin air next to her bunk.

"Mirasei! What – I mean, yes, he was very pleas – I mean I did -"

Flustered, silently cursing, Jaina managed to reel in her tongue even as Mirasei's finely-wrought face – at that moment all too elven for her comfort – took on an amused expression. _Playing the fool on the stage of life, _Jaina thought derisively. _At least it might boost moral…_

"What do you want, Mirasei?" she asked bluntly, and could not deny a certain satisfaction as the amusement slid from the woman's face to be replaced with apprehension.

"It's captain Nazgrel. He has urgent news. He is waiting outside the tent."

Jaina cocked an eyebrow.

"They can't be that urgent, given that he didn't barge in here himself."

Mirasei shook her head.

"Actually, Lady, I intercepted him."

"Oh."

Jaina paused for a split-second, as the image of willowy, sway-eared Mirasei dragging on Nazgrel's arm, heels plowing into the mud, flashed before her inner eye; then she shook her head and flung back the blanket.

"My belt, please," she said, pointing at the colored leather slung over a travel-stool. She pulled on socks and boots with easy practice, as she could hardly remember the last time she had slept out of clothes. Snatching her belt from Mirasei's hand, Jaina ran out of the tent, the contents of the attached pouches clinking and jangling merrily.

A gust of rain greeted her as she stepped outside, and she was about to turn back to grab her cloak, when a large hand landed heavily on her shoulder.

"No time. Come along, Lady Proudmoore. I'll fill you in as we go."

Jaina turned to look up at the source of the deep, gruff voice. As usual, a pair of tusks and a square, green jaw was all she could make out of the face of Thrall's second-in-command. At the moment _her_second-in-command.

Nazgrel's features were hidden under the dripping visage of a giant wolf. But Jaina hardly needed to see the orc's face to realize something she had thought impossible. The tense set of his broad shoulders, the way his fingers curled and uncurled around the handle of his axe, spoke plainly, however.

He was nervous. Nazgrel, the epitome of the brave warrior, one who only scoffed at such human vices as cooked meat and hot baths, and carried out his Warchief's orders – even one as distasteful as submitting to the authority of a human female – without questions, was nervous.

Only the crystal clear knowledge that something had to be very wrong for Nazgrel to expose himself like that, subdued Jaina's smirk when she asked what was going on. The orc ripped his hand from her shoulder with a sneer. For a moment, the dark hollows of his wolf-mask glared at her, and then he simply motioned for her to follow him.

Nazgrel set a brisk pace downhill, away from the main clustering of tents and shelters. Half-running to keep up, Jaina swept a practiced eye over the camp, and at once noted that a great many people seemed to have defied the pouring rain, despite them having set up camp scant hours ago following another exhaustive march tracking down demons. By all rights, most of the men should be resting, not milling around like ants, nor loading gear unto braying pack-mules. A pair of trolls ambled past them, their arms full of what looked to be freshly-cut throwing spears. She frowned.

"The scouts are back –," Nazgrel began, but Jaina cut him off with a sudden flare of temper.

"We are marching out again!" she said accusingly and whirled to face the orc. Nazgrel stopped, and crossed his arms.

"Marching out and leaving the tents!" Jaina went on. "Titans be damned, Nazgrel, the men are exhausted. Yours as well – don't try to buy me off with tales of orcish superiority now. We have wounded, and the supplies are low –," she stamped her foot in sheer exasperation, and pointed a trembling finger at Nazgrel. "I will not allow this!"

Despite the wind and general commotion, her high-pitched outcry drew a good deal of attention. People edged closer, though careful not to get too close, lest they be dragged into a confrontation that seemed to have been brewing since it had been decided to pair up the blonde Sorceress and the conservative raider-captain.

The two trolls halted, and squatted down, snickering and grinned at each other.

Nazgrel simply stood there, weathering off the storm and her ranting with equal calm.

"Oh for Light's sake, Nazgrel," Jaina hissed. "You are not a damn snail. There's a person a-knocking, and oh I'm so sorry! It's a human, and she wants some answers. Cough up, or do you want to blast it out of your?" It was pure instinct. The natural defiance of Jaina's soul had finally resurfaced after being pummeled into the ground for days on end.

Blue flames, cold as the dreams of the dead, gathered in her left palm, with an ease that would have astounded more than one of her associates back in Dalaran. So intense was the cold that the rain froze as it passed over her, rattling away on the wind like pebbles. War is an efficient teacher.

"Lady Jaina! Don't do this." It was Merrehen Gildhaft's stricken voice. She could just make out the paladin in his gleaming armor at the edge of her field of vision. He looked to be holding out his hands at her rather imploringly. Perhaps she shouldn't have confided in Solena Gildhaft about that little episode in the second year of her study. The boy got his lower parts defrosted. Eventually.

"Back off, Gildhaft," she snarled, flashing him a cutting look. The flame rose higher in her hand, began to lick down her arm.

With a dismayed expression, the paladin lowered his arms.

"You want words, human?" The voice was low, almost soft, and so foreign that Jaina at first did not recognize it as coming from Nazgrel. This, she imagined, was maybe how he spoke to his wolf.

"Yes." Almost negligently, she shook her hand and sent flames spattering over the ground, spot-freezing the muddy pools.

"Then you better listen up…" Quick as a striking snake, flowing like quicksilver in alchemical tubes, the orc had his axe loose and swung it in crisp arch. Right at Jaina's head.

"Light, shield thy children!" A glowing oval, much like heat shimmering over a road in summer, formed at once around the Sorceress, a shield of faith as impregnable as one of adamantite. Nazgrel's arm fell heavily to his side.

"Don't waste your blessings," Jaina said tightly. "And all of you, get those weapons out of my sight."

The crowd stirred, almost reluctantly, caught up as they had been in the rising tensions, the violence-laden atmosphere. Slowly, half-drawn swords were sheathed, mouths closed, axes lowered.

"I believe you were getting ready to march out," she added, quietly, sternly. "Get to it."

To a man, they obeyed her. Humans and dwarves and elves; trolls and orcs, they all left at her command.

"You could have killed me," Nazgrel said, still softly, as Merrehen Gildhaft stalked off, his blue cape whipping in the wind.

"And it's only now you realize that?"

With a genuine smile, Jaina laid a hand on the ice encasing the orc's entire arm, locking his fist around the handle of his axe. She whispered, and the ice melted away. For a brief instance, Sorceress and wolf-rider captain locked eyes, and the orc lowered his gaze first. In the span of a cast spell, power had shifted, and Nazgrel would never be able to cow her again. His stunned stance the moment before he was hit by her icy blast, as he comprehended the speed with which she had called forth her magic, ensured that.

* * *

Nazgrel led her a short way down the slope, to the stony overhang that provided shelter for the dire wolves, well away from the mules and pack horses. Two orcs were tending to a wolf with a bloodied flank, and a male dwarf stood nearby, rubbing his arm with something from a small jar. When they sighted their two commanders, they snapped to a somewhat halting attention. 

Jaina swept a quick glance over them. "So you were the only ones that made it back…"

"Aye, Lady," the dwarf said. He stoppered the jar, and rolled down a dirty sleeve over an arm covered in ugly burn marks. His hair and beard were badly singed, and his shoulder had been punctured by what looked like a rake with four points, right through mail and woolen padding. Only demon claws could rend metal like that. The two orcs did not look much better. Both were covered in muck and soot, and long rips, in parallels of four, ran down their backs. They also reeked so strongly of demonic magic that Jaina was surprised that the nearby wolves did not bury their noses in the mud.

"Had to fight our way through," the dwarf went on. His name was Hermund Hammerfire, Jaina recalled, a rather outstanding hunter and tracker, on the word of Ennon Gemeye.

"Hammerfire, I need to know precisely what took place, and these ones don't speak common." She indicated the orcs.

"As you bid, My Lady," the dwarf said, preening a bit on the use of his clan name.

"Me and my group set up camp south o' the ruins, Lady, and it was good an' calm all night long," Hammerfire began, his Dun Morogh accent growing heavier as he talked.

"Then by first light, the fliers appear, Lady, and they circle for a while, and we keep low, since they are just five or so. But then one o' them cries out, and the whole bunch dives straight at Soldrav's group, and that must have been a signal, for the next I know, this other bunch o' demons, big as boulders, comes charging out o' the forest, straight for Soldrav, and the crazy boy stands his ground." The dwarf shook his head.

"Not that I think running woulda helped much. Those demons had that glassy-eyed look, you know - your Ladyship." Jaina nodded. She could vividly remember the erratic, even crazed, behavior of the Legions they had fought earlier on, and she did not care much for facing that again. Insanity added little charm to the horror that was a rampaging demon.

"They ran them down, Lady, ripping them apart like one o' these gnomish harvesters, an' then…" Hammerfire's voice began to tremble, and he wrung his hands as the memories and his hurts seemed to get the better of him.

Jaina slapped him. Her small, pale hand connected hard with the dwarf's sooty cheek, sending his head reeling to the side.

"The demons, Hammerfire," she said, doing her best to keep her growing annoyance out of her voice. That dwarf had a descriptive streak she could ill tolerate right now.

Hammerfire barely flinched at the blow.

"Aye, Lady…"

Behind the dwarf, one of the orcs mimicked Jaina's action, and his buddy responded with a rather crude trusting movement of his arm. Nazgrel snarled three words in orcish, and the scouts froze on the spot, showing all the shock Hammerfire didn't. Though there were no doubt that Nazgrel had put them in place, something about the exchange bothered Jaina. _Ikaiz srul tagga._ She tugged the words away for later use, and turned her attention back to Hammerfire, who had regained his composure.

"While they had their fun with Soldrav's group, Rattletail had led his group out of the ruins, and that was not a meeting of old friends," the dwarf said, referring to the leader of the group of demons they had been chasing, a squat creature with a desiccated, sting-adorned tail.

"A lot of hissing and growling, and they get at each other like rams in heat. Those newcomers were fresh in strength, though, and when Rattletail's head went flying, his followers turned meek like kittens. I can't say what happened after that, Lady, for it was then the demons turned on us. I swear that we mice in the field, but they sniffed us out anyway. And yes, we were all that made it back." Hammerfire tugged at his beard, and eyed Jaina uneasily.

The Sorceress tapped her fingers against her chin, idly.

"Those other demons, from precisely which direction did they appear?" she asked.

"South - southeast, Lady."

Jaina let out a string of words so caustic that even the two orcish scouts got the gist of it, and turned to stare at her.

"Oh, grow up," she muttered, as the thoughts flew through her mind.

There could only be one explanation as to how that new cadre of demons had slipped past the scouts. It just didn't make any sense. Since they decided to split up the army, she and her troops had swept the lowlands for stragglers, in particular a group of Legion-spawns led by the now-dead Rattletail, a tiresome, but otherwise blessedly uncomplicated affair. Like wolves on the prowl, they had harassed the demons and killed those that fell behind. Easy, bloody work, and when the scouts had reported that the demons, driven into exhaustion, had squatted down in one of the ancient elven ruins that dotted the corrupted forest, Jaina had risked setting camp and earn a few hours of rest. Then hubris had struck, and gifted her with this waking nightmare, all her worst fears come true. The fiends had made it into the Barrow Dens, and not even the best of Tyrande Whisperwind's maps showed the full extent of that ancient network of tunnels and caves. No wonder Nazgrel's composure had suffered a crack.

So.

She turned abruptly on her heel. "We'd better get back," she told Nazgrel. The raider-captain followed her promptly, letting out a low call as he went. "And you, keep up as best you can," she yelled at the scouts over her shoulder _Or die trying. _

A forced march was a dreary reward for bringing back such vital information, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Feeling strangely agitated and calm at the same time, Jaina sloshed uphill with a newfound vigor.

"The maps didn't show any tunnels this far in?" she asked, rhetorically. Her memory on anything drawn or written was exceptionally good.

"Not if you trust the Priestess' maps, there isn't."

She blinked. No, that was too ridiculous a notion. "Keep your misgivings to yourself, Nazgrel," she snapped. "I trust Whisperwind. Better try and figure out how the demons managed to sneak up on us."

Tongue lolling between one and a half oversized canines, a sand-colored dire wolf came galloping up, to lope easily along at Nazgrel's side. Lacktooth, the beast was aptly named, a resent replacement for the slain wolf whose skin Nazgrel now wore. The orc swung up on Lacktooth's back with that fluid grace Jaina still found amazing when associated with a seven-foot brute in furs, armor and weapons.

"Coming, Lady Proudmoore?" he asked, and for a moment, Jaina was sharply reminded of another seven-foot brute, though not in furs, that had given her a rather forced ride. But Nazgrel did not hold out a hand to her, and she knew that there would never be trust, only power, between them. Same race, worlds apart.

Breaking off that train of thoughts, as she felt a stirring she was far from prepared to face, Jaina cast the spell of levitation, the first time in quite some days she had dared, and it was with old joy she felt her feet leave the sloppy ground.

"Let's go."

* * *

Merrehen Gildhaft reined in his warhorse, Greysteel, and squared his shoulders like a man expecting bad news, when Jaina arrived at the point of the column with Nazgrel. She came to an easy rest, and hung in mid-air in front of the paladin and his horse. 

"My Lady," he said, inclining his head.

"To an order well executed," she replied, shifting her position teasingly to hover just above Greysteel's rump. The paladin arched his neck, but didn't rise to the bait. With a shake of her hand, Jaina seated herself squarely behind his saddle.

"The demons have found their way into the Barrow Dens," she said quietly. Gildhaft had enough discipline to remain rooted in the saddle, not displaying any outward anxiety that might infect the troops.

"All our fears have come true, then, My Lady," was his reply.

"Yes, and now pray to the Light we can catch them before they reach their destination."

"Amen, Lady." With those words, he kicked Greysteel into a trot. Jaina abandoned her seat, and took her usual place next to the paladin. There wasn't anything to say. Not before they caught up with the demons.

The rain fell with undiminished strength, rich drops that wetted through even the thickest of oil-cloth, dripped down metal cuirasses and ran along grimly-set jaw-lines. The landscape did not change much, the diseased firs only becoming lower and more decrepit as they moved up the low ridge that separated them from the ruins in which the demons had sheltered.

Slick, mossy stones replaced mud, hardly making progress easier, and when a pack-mule slipped and tumbled down the incline, dragging with it two men and a load of goblin explosives that threatened to set off, Jaina had to encapsulate the poor beast in ice.

"This is going too slow," Nazgrel hissed under his breath, as the column made its precarious way across a tumbling whitewater stream. For once, Jaina was in complete agreement with the orc.

"Merrehen, I think – ghaa!" The paladin's eyes widened in alarm as Jaina suddenly cringed, and clutched at her chest. It felt like her heart was caving in on it self, abandoning hope and leaving behind a dark and cramped space filled with malice and seeping slime. Her lungs cramped, and the magic fled, dropping her heavily to the stony ground.

"Lady Proudmoore!" This time, Jaina did not scold Gildhaft for using his Light-given powers on her. The healing surged through her, and she sucked in a greedy gulp of air.

"What happened?" Gildhaft asked softly, and warded off the nearby soldiers with a swift hand.

"I –," Jaina swallowed. The horrible impulse was gone, as quickly as it had come, and though shaken, her mind was calm. Which meant the attack had not been aimed at her. _Oh, Light let me be wrong! _

Her hands flew to her belt, and she tore open one of her pouches, and snatched up a piece of crystal. In the murky light and heavy rain, the inside of the stone blazed and flickered like a flame in red and orange. Jaina closed her fingers so tight the flesh turned white, and scrambled to her feet.

"He needs me…"

She cried out the spell, desperately.

"My Chieftain does not need any filthy human!" There was pure loathing in that outcry, poisonous hatred so strong that Jaina instinctively flew into a rage, halted her dematerialization and lashed out.

"Don't you dare order me around! I love whom I want to!" She was hardly aware of what she said, or of the utter chock her words caused. The dream was still lurking in her mind, and the past swam before her eyes.

_"Jaina…" His hand moved to cover hers, squeezing ever so gently, just enough to make the thorns prick her skin with the lightest of pains. His face was very close, and his golden hair spilled down to mingle with her own locks, and the colors were as alike as coming from one head. His lips touched hers, and she responded with a wantonness that felt so_right_ she grinned like the proverbial cat in the creamery, and then her hands were free on the rose, as he moved to slide long fingers down her cheeks, down her neck, trailing fire on her skin that charred down through all the layers of flesh and bone and into her heart and mind._

_"Jaina… WHAT__ THE HELL IS GOING ON?!" Their lips parted and both looked up, Kael paling while she flushed red as a ripe apple. Standing in the open door, filling the frame admirably, was Arthas Menethil, prince of Lordaeron, soon-to-be-knighted, her suitor. His ruggedly handsome features were twisted in open disbelief and then he took a step forward, fist raised._

_In the ensuing chaos, the rose g__ot trampled into a purple pulp. _

Jaina gritted her teeth. That afternoon had been one of the pivots of her life. Those ruggedly handsome features illuminated by the corpse-fires of Stratholme had been another.

"Dammit, I am trying to save his soul," she spat out, and stared defiantly at the orc and the paladin. A long moment passed, and then Gildhaft simply shook his head, clearly washing his hands on the matter. Go, his stance said, go to your foolish needs, and leave the troops to me.

Jaina looked at him incredulously. Foolish? She was going to regret her hasty words later, but there was only one fool here. Could Gildhaft not see that while they might win this battle without Thrall, there could be no lasting peace in this new land without him?

Fool, indeed.

"No, Merrehen," she said tightly. "I know my place and my powers. You walk the troops, and I'll serve those demons on a silver platter when you get there. Nazgrel! I'll need your speed."

The orc's jaw tensed almost imperceptible. His aversion was palpable, but Jaina leaned in and muttered: "He'll be lost."

That settled it. Levitating, Jaina grabbed hold of Nazgrel's shoulder, and pretended not to notice how it shuddered at the contact. Then Lacktooth was running flat out, and there was only the wind in her face.

* * *

The ruins were painted with blood. The thick, dark demon-blood clung to the age-pitted stones in great spatters, and torn bodies were sprawled around like rag dolls. An acrid stench hung about the place. Jaina sniffed – the smell blotted out the moist rot of the surrounding woods, and it was almost a relief. Other things, in particular the arrangement in front of her, had her on the verge of hysterical laughter. 

"This is a mockery." Nazgrel's sense of humor clearly didn't stretch as wide as hers.

"At least we know for sure which way they went," Jaina said lightly. "Let's go."

The decapitated head of Rattletail was staked to the ground, and a human hand was stuffed into the wide, toothy mouth, and one finger pointed due south.

As shown by his sandy coat, Lacktooth was native to the plains of Kalimdor. The wolf had a leaner build and sleeker fur than the white dire wolves from the Alterac Mountains that Thrall's clan had brought over the sea. And while Lacktooth could outpace any frost-wolf on level ground, he wasn't as sure-footed. Unfortunately, the wolf compensated with a recklessness that would have suited a demented troll, and while she was grateful for the speed, Jaina would be even more grateful if she survived this trip with her arms intact. Clinging to Nazgrel's shoulder-harness for dear life, she felt like a banner caught in a storm – Lacktooth changed direction with an abruptness that pulled on her arms so she feared they would be ripped from their sockets.

Despite the messy weather, she caught glimpses of dark smears on ground and trees, trampled vegetation, and once Lacktooth jumped a prone figure, horned and green-furred.

"That was a satyr!" she yelled into Nazgrel's ear. "But – we haven't fought them for days…" Suddenly, it clicked. They had indeed met and fought some of Sai'Arihaso's more savage relatives when they had doubled back to cover more ground. The satyrs had laired in a deep complex of caves, and the creatures had been most tedious to clear out. Down there, in the damp darkness, they had missed a tunnel, a connection to unknown passages that the demons had exploited to sneak in unnoticed.

"Watch out!"

"Wha –" Steel flashed, and a winged body flapped past her with a shriek. _Gargoyle!_ She pushed back from Nazgrel's shoulder, and rolled with the movement, just in time to avoid a sweeping claw. Another dark shape hurtled out of the rain, and in a surge of adrenalin, she punched it in the face with a blast of arcane energy. Screeching, the gargoyle latched on to her in a tight embrace, and they tumbled through the air while the magic ate its way through stony flesh. Jaina hissed in pain as her back was raked by claws, but her concentration held, and the gargoyle soon ceased struggling.

In desperation, she untangled from the heavy carcass, and came to a hard stop against the trunk of a tall tree. Panting, she clutched at the rough bark, distantly aware of her own warm blood running down her back, and tried to get her bearing. Except for the dead gargoyle five feet below her, she was alone at the base of a small, rocky knoll. Tall firs, their feathery branches swaying in the strong wind, formed ominous silhouettes against the dark sky.

Jaina suddenly narrowed her eyes, and flew lower, while she pulled a small vial of healing from her belt, and quickly chugged it down. The familiar feel of warmth spread with a rather bitter reminder of the saying that wetting your pants is a lousy way to keep warm. She had forgotten to restock on healing potions, and she had a good feel she was going to pay for that bit of forgetfulness.

Gingerly, she stepped into the shadow cast by the knoll, and her heart skipped a beat. A dark hole bigger than a well yawned in front of her, beckoning, mocking. The upturned soil was filled with smeared prints from clawed feet. To Jaina's untrained eye, it looked like the tracks led into the hole. So how much of a lead did the demons have? The Sorceress stood in the rain, unsure of how to proceed. The assault bothered her. While the gargoyle had been out for blood, she had a nasty suspicion that she had been brought here on purpose. Only she.

Very well, she was sick and tired of playing tag.

"You're a big boy, Nazgrel. Take care," she muttered, held out her hand, and said: "Zhia'zhyyre." A glistening, vaguely man-like shape condensed out of the pouring rain. Broad bands of green glass set with blue cabochon stones encircled the massive arms, symbols of submission, and two slits of pale fire stared at Jaina.

"We have a mission," she said, and the water elemental inclined its head once. It was said that most elementals had no mind, and little understanding for the wants of warm-blooded creatures, but Jaina had taken a fancy to her elemental, even so far as naming it in old elvish.

With the elemental in front, Jaina scrambled down the tunnel with her senses strained to the utmost. The first part of the tunnel was raw earth, and so sharply angled she had to use her hands to break her descent, but after some 20 feet it leveled out, widened and became rock.

There was rubble on the tunnel floor. Jaina guessed that the demons had broken through a dead-end, and dug the last part of the tunnel from the below.

She shuddered. The whole forest was potentially holed-through like a cheese. There was several life-times worth of work down here. Not to mention other things… Old lore told of ancient beings of immense power that ruled the world before time began. And told of the coming of the Titans, shapers of the all, and the gigantic struggles by which they drove the ancient powers into the earth, to fester and rage in eternal darkness. Gnawing like worms through the bed-rock, no place safe – ah, what was she doing? Jaina bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, drawing blood, to derail her mind.

The only light was the faint glow coming from Zhia'zhyyre's armbands, but Jaina could have made her way in total darkness. There was old magic in this place, refined and honed through millennia, deeply etched into the rocks, and to her, it stood out like a fine tracery of silver.

And she needed no light because the stench of evil was so strong it made her head hurt.

She rounded a bend, and stopped. The tunnel expanded into a high-vaulted cave, from which many other tunnels radiated out. The floor was a hedgehog's back of stalagmites and she could hear running water up ahead. The place practically twinkled with magic, and Jaina let out an exasperated sigh. She could not determine which way the demons had gone. She would have to back-track and wait for the troops. _Thrall, don't do anything I wouldn't do, I beg of you._

She turned around.

Fire broiled down from the ceiling and engulfed Zhia'zhyyre in a heat so intense the elemental exploded in a shower of scalding water. In defense, Jaina raised a shield of freezing air, and the water turned to ice that broke on the cavern floor.

"I am admiring, and I am content," came a low, completely inhuman voice from above. Jaina whipped her gaze up, and fell back in shock, nearly tripping herself. What was clinging to the stalactites above her was like nothing she had ever met before, and it was not the wonder of an unknown horizon or the new taste of an exotic treat. No, it was peeking through fingers when the criminals where tortured in the town square, cracking an egg and finding a dead chicken.

Jaina had seen death and decay before, but this scaffold of veins and organs placed like no anatomy she knew of, and held together by pinkish-yellow stretches of transparent skin filled her with nausea. The eyes, silvery-red and large as a man's fist, seemed to hook into her heart and pull her towards a hungry maw. Such hunger… it was crushing, and unbearable.

"W – who are y-you?" she managed to gasp.

"I am left behind, I am hollow, and I am hungering," was the answer.

"Hollow…" she breathed. "Hollow One." Her heart was leaden, and her body felt like it was being peeled away. This terrifying specter was the very thing that had snug into their minds and spread its poison. A being that could affect thousands of people, drive demons to insanity and corrupt evil, and here she stood – silly little girl that thought she could take on the whole world alone. Silly little girl that did not have the decency to lover properly. Hands had strayed, and her skirts had been too high-slitted and her bodice too low. Silly girl… A lover of princes, all three of them…

"You, I am liking, him I am breaking. Go to him, do liking, and after, come to me." The eyes rolled and spun and Jaina had an impression of silent, self-satisfactory laughter.

"Go, and come back. Even more to me, in the cave under trees and iron." She was released, and staggered away from the hungering presence, and the memories it invoked in her, and right now she would willingly have swam back to Lordaeron, if only to get away. But luckily, she had a much easier option. For the first time in her life, Jaina jumped blind.

* * *

Leaves brushed against her cheek, and the sudden return of the lashing rain and howling wind was a revitalizing shock to her senses. She was back outside, sprawled against a fallen fir-tree, and her left leg throbbed unpleasantly, but the dark sky above her was such a relief she almost cried. 

Fire fell from the sky.

Jaina watched, wide-eyed, as greenish fire-balls trailed across the grey clouds.

"Oh, no," she whispered. "Oh, no… You don't need to, please, I will come –" She jumped up, but the moment she put weight on her left leg, it felt like it was cleaved down the middle.

With a thin whimper, she fell on her side, one hand raving at her leg, the other hand clawing at the ground. Mercifully, the pain receded before she passed out and Jaina could dare a look at her leg.

Bloody splinters protruded from just below her knee, surrounded by raw, rain-washed flesh. The rest of the branch was still attached to the fir. It had broken when she had moved, and she supposed she was damn lucky it hadn't gone worse. It was a staple in the initiation of first-year students at the Citadel to get casually pointed out certain suspiciously human-like structures in walls and floors. Teleportation was a precarious art.

A fire-ball roared overhead, so close her skin singed, and hit the forest floor in an inferno of flames. From this miniature hell, a giant unfolded and began to lumber east-ward. Away from her and towards the coming troops.

Gritting her teeth, Jaina propped herself up against the tree, one inch at a time. She didn't care anymore. She couldn't save them. She retrieved the crystal beacon, and began to chant.

"Proudmoore, stop!" Like vengeful spirits, Nazgrel and Lacktooth raced out of the flames.

"You gonna stop me?" she flung at him, more than ready for another battle. Smoke drifted between them and the flickering light of the greedy flames sent shadows dancing over fur and wounds and teeth.

"No. Take me with you."

She smiled. She had won. Ultimately, Nazgrel served Thrall, not the Horde. Decision taken, he reached out and pulled her onto the back of the exhausted Lacktooth.

The sounds of distant battle were barely audible above the roar of the fire, the crackling and booming of trees collapsing and exploding in the supernatural heat. The greenish flames of the infernal were slowly disappearing as the demon did its master's command.

"Cast the spell, human."

She did so, and happily, the words running over her lips like a string of pearls. The magic gripped them, and hurtled them through the darkness.


	11. Love

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard.

A/N: One down, seven million five hundred thousand and one to go :(

_Chapter 10: Love_

"Thrall."

No-one had ever called his name like that. Ever. It was how he imagined his mother would have whispered to the precious infant in her arms, wrapped in the blue blanket with the white Frostwolf symbol bold upon the soft wool.

He stiffened, and his striking hand paused, leaving the necromancer with skull and life intact.

_Thrall_. There had been so much love in that single sound. His parched soul shuddered, and the mighty Warchief felt his legs tremble.

He turned, and through hazy eyes saw a bend, white-robed figure standing in the entrance to the hut.

"Echag Durotan… look away from the fire." The stone fell from his hand, and with a bereaved sound, he dropped to his knees in front of Drek'thar. The shaman's blind eyes were filled with compassion and sadness as he placed a hand on the much-younger orc's shoulder.

"This armor," Drek'thar said slowly, "has never known dishonor. And it never will." The love and trust in his voice was profound, unwavering.

"Elder, I am despicable," he said hoarsely.

"Aren't we all at some time or another," the shaman replied curtly. "Thrall, listen, for I will never speak of this again. It pains me to even think of it. But you are the only hope of renewed greatness and glory for our race, and therefore, the repercussions if you stray are equally great. I will kill you my self rather than see that happen. Your life is duty to your destiny, or you must forfeit it, life and destiny all."

Thrall could not look at Drek'thar. The love the old shaman held for him had kept him from killing the necromancer, but suddenly its brightness only served to show him all of his failings, mending none of his wounds. Fenced in by anger, he could not love back.

"Elements rot and duty with them," he snarled and with a flex of muscles, he was on his feet, strode past his revered teacher and out of the hut.

Cold rain hit him with the refreshing feel of a roll in new-fallen snow, and brought back a measure of calm to his heated mind Suddenly, the childishness of his response struck him. He stared at the ground, idly tracing a flow of rain-water leaping down his plated boots. What a fool he was, and an even greater one for not going back in and beg forgiveness. It would only serve to emphasize his mistakes, and that he could not bear right now. Perhaps never.

"I am doing my best," he growled, to all and no one in particular. The Elements were ever-present, weren't they? Birth and death, songs and gnawed bones, high under the heavens, and boring through the bedrock – demanding justice for the horrors inflicted upon the nature around him, and there was the alluring embrace of corrupted life, the myriad beings crying out for him to join in their newfound strength. And distantly, at the fringes of his sanity, Snowsong moved about, her touch wan to his warring state of mind. She was in pain, just like him.

When he tore his attention away from this chorus of temptresses, he only found him self face to face with the image of his father and behind him the Ancestors, spreading out like a vast field whose boundaries were lost in time, and every visage was stern and reproachful, and silently repeating that hated word – _duty. _

Rage, then. Drek'thar had told him to look away from the fire, but what could he do, when only fire brought a semblance of peace, a path to fulfill that duty which all others kept nagging him about, demanding without delivering. A fool he had been, yes, for wasting time on the human. There were bigger game, and things whose death would bring more satisfaction. With a smirk he unhooked the Doomhammer and – it flashed for his eyes, and the rank smell of resin and blood assaulted his nostrils. The rain glittered silvery and out of wind and wetness a direwolf mounted by two riders formed in front of him.

Bloody, wounded, muddy, stinking of demons – Thrall cried out in sheer disbelief.

"Jaina! Nazgrel! What the Hell are you doing here, you - you idiots? I did not send for both of you!"

He pointed a shaking finger at Jaina Proudmoore. There was so much he wanted to yell at her it clogged up his throat, and all he got out was a strangled: - Stop clutching at him and get down here!"

He had asked for her, and now she was here, but he would have wagered his very life, and that of his firstborn son, that she would not be arriving seated behind Nazgrel – his conservative, human-hating, blood-brother – clutching at him like he was a plank and she was drowning.

She _did _let go of Nazgrel, tentatively, and swayed in the saddle. She would have fallen, had Nazgrel not hastily dismounted and steadied her. She was wounded badly, he belatedly realized.

"Is your group intact?" he demanded to know, fearing the worst.

"My Lord, thank the Ancestors that you are in all right," Nazgrel exclaimed, a rare show of emotion for the stoic orc.

"Answer me, Nazgrel!"

Nazgrel dropped to his knees, furred head bowed.

"We were attacked, my lord, by demons and infernals. I do not know how the battle stands. I – we, me and Lady Proudmoore, we feared for you greatly." He said it quietly, devoid of apology or brawn, and Thrall's shoulders sagged.

"Your loyalty is great, Nazgrel, but I hear you admitting to forfeiting a battle for nothing." There had been nothing to fear for. Nothing at all. He told himself that over and over and over.

"As you can see, I am fine," he said angrily, letting each word fall like a hammer. Nazgrel bend his neck and took the blows in silence.

With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Jaina Proudmoore straightened.

"Thrall, do not punish Nazgrel. It was me who tricked him into coming with me. He is guilty of acting on that great loyalty you just spoke of, and nothing more." He was about to bid her shut up, when she held out something that shone a bright red through the rain.

"This took me here, Thrall. The beacon is ablaze with fire, and I felt it, I felt your murderous state of mind. I came to save your soul." Seated on Lacktooth' back she was level with him, and her conviction was flawless. Under that searching, blue gaze, Thrall gave in.

"Lady Proudmoore, you had just cause," he admitted somewhat bitterly, "though someone beat you to the salvation of my soul."

Her face lit up.

"I am happy for that." For the briefest of seconds, their eyes locked. Then Jaina looked away. " have dark tidings as well." She clutched at the saddle, her face paling to the color of chalk.

"Should we be fearing for you, Lady?" he asked with a touch of sarcasm, stepping over to steady her.

"Got a branch up my leg," she said dismissively, "its nothing. Just can't use the leg... Help me down, please, so I can explain."

"Nothing, and I'm the prince of Lordaeron. That word is moot I think." Thrall practically hauled the Sorceress from Lacktooth's back, while looking both her and Nazgrel up and down. Burnt skin, raw scratches, ragged slashes down Nazgrel's back – and on the back of the Sorceress' knee, hidden from sight when she had been mounted on Lacktooth – a crater of torn flesh from which a broken stub of wood protruded. At the top of the wound, where the rain had washed the flesh clean, he could see pink cartilage.

"You'll lose that leg if its not treated soon, Miss Proudmoore," he scolded.

"Then get me one, as long as you will hear me out," she retorted.

Muttering something about human stupidity, Thrall called out to a passing warrior to get moving, and fetch him a healer.

"And for Element's sake, not the paladin!" he warned. Sundare fawning over his Lady was the last thing he wanted right now.

"We can last a little longer, Thrall," the Sorceress said. Hanging onto his arm heavily, she seemed very small and vulnerable.

"Miss Proudmoore, don't be stupid," he told her.

"My name is Jaina. Please use it." He hesitated, and then nodded. With a brief smile, she went on. "Thrall, listen, we were attacked by demons under the control of the Hollow One. In a moment of recklessness, I decided to seek out the demons my self, and ended up confronting the Hollow One – or some kind of projection of it. It is worse than I thought, Thrall. It feasts on our despair, grows fat on fear, and I believe its hunger to be endless. It wants us, the leaders, the strongest, and I don't think we have any choice." She paused, and Thrall digested her words with a chilling clarity. This was a plague on the world, and if they did not stop it here, it would engulf all, feeding endlessly on the misery and despair it itself spread. These last weeks wading through Felwood, killing demons and herding undead, was proof enough. What had they really accomplished? The death of a few measly demons and undead had been paid with revolt, bloodrage, unraveling of minds. It was all an elaborate, self-deceiving ruse.

"Even after we slay the last demon in the world, the Hollow One will persist. We need go to the source, and end it all. And it is waiting for us, in the caves beneath Irontrees. It wants us, the two of us." She pointed back and forth. "For love, we have to go!" Her voice took on a desperate edge, and Thrall gave her a light shake. Was she getting delirious?

""Miss Proudmoore – Jaina – calm down. We will go, as soon as we can."

"NO!" she yelled at him, with such force that Lacktooth bared his teeth.

"If we do not go now, it will bring all of its force down upon us. So many will die that do not have to die. It wants _us, _the leaders, the hearts and brains." Finally, Thrall understood what she meant.

"I am not leaving my warriors behind!" he snapped. "And what chance do you think we have, going into the unknown all alone? Look at yourself!"

She took a deep, steadying breath. "We have to go, Thrall. We are the only ones that can make this end. Look at us, cannibalizing ourselves, breaking down." Her gaze went soft, introverted.

"What are you hiding for me?" she whispered, and Thrall cursed himself for forgetting how clever she was.

"Jaina, we attacked a caravan of undead this morning, a bit north of here. It was led by a human necromancer, whom we took prisoner. He... Sundare called him by name and said that you knew of him."

Her face twisted in shock.

"Airin! It must be him. He's alive." Airin. It was the same name Sundare had used. So the paladin was right, and that made all so much worse.

"He is not a friend any more, Jaina," he said carefully. "He killed two of my best with bolts of decay, and wounded Snowsong. He has turned against us."

Doubt, and dawning dread, flickered across her features.

"Take me to him," she demanded. "I don't believe it."

He did not contradict her, since it was clear that she was adamant about it. Let her see for herself, he decided, and perhaps they might get some answers.

"Lady Proudmoore. What brings you here?" Thrall nearly dropped Jaina in shock. Drek'thar could move as quietly as any ghost if he chose so. The shaman did not sound terribly surprised to find the bleeding Sorceress in the arms of his chieftain. Thrall could only lower his eyes.

Silence reigned. Jaina's blood began to seep through to the padding he wore his armor. "I need to see the captive," Jaina said after a while, apparently grasping that Thrall was not going to speak.

Drek'thar nodded. "I understand your need, Lady. Thrall, bring Lady Proudmoore to meet her friend. You will find that he is in a more cooperative mood now."

Thrall picked up the wounded woman, and turned his back on the shaman. To his great relief, Drek'thar did not follow. Shaman and Seer – had he ever been able to hide anything from the Elder?

* * *

In the darkness of the hut, the faint lines of the memory-cage stood out like clearly.

"What is that?" Jaina whispered in quiet awe. She was not a shaman, but she knew the exceptional.

"Oragak toog'ekoreh, memory-cage," he explained just as quietly. He was no less awed than the Sorceress. The memory-cage required the greatest favor of the Elements, and highest attainment of skill to perform, and it was furthermore very risky for the being it was inflicted upon, and therefor almost never used. Thrall had never attempted it, and in Felwood, he had hardly used other powers than the calling of elements, a basic, though powerful, teaching.

"Drek'thar has sent the human into his memories," he said. "The past and the present merged. If ever he was your friend, Jaina, he is still as long as the memory-cage persists. You will be safe with him."

"And when the cage is no more?" she asked with stilted hope.

"When the cage is gone, he will be as he was, perhaps worse. Time cannot be turned back."

Gently, he put down the Sorceress and helped her settle on her right side.

"Airin, it is so good to see you again. I thought you were dead," she began softly. Heartbreakingly soft. Thrall stepped back, with a feeling of impending doom.

The man suspended in the glowing spirals of power stirred, and opened his eyes. Gazed at the woman in front of him, and the corner of his mouth tugged upwards.

"Bluejay, thank goodness! I have something very important to tell you."

Jaina let out a wretched sob.

"Why?" was all she managed to say, and to Thrall that one word contained all that had happened to them since setting foot in this accursed forest.

"There is no time. Whatever this strange magic is, I can feel it slip. It is no match for my master's allure."

"Please... I miss you. Me and Zach, we..."

"Listen! Jaina! You have to go to him, or this will never end. This nightmare is only the beginning. He is jealous, terribly jealous, and craving all that this world can give. But you can stop him here, for he is waiting for you. He hates you for bringing down the True One, and he can gain much by your defeat."

Thrall tried intently to make heads and tails of what he heard. The True One? Like the Hollow One was not enough to content with. He knew the strength of the memory-cage, and yet he felt that the human was just greasing the wheels for his master.

"So if we go there, to the caves," Jaina said - Airin nodded encouragingly -, "we will meet the Hollow One?"

"Yes. He will be prepared for you, eager. That will be your chance."

She shifted a bit, rubbed at her injured leg.

"This is not the Lion-Game, Bluejay. I am not trying to get your drunk."

"I know, Airin. It's just, how can I believe you when I know – know that you serve that – thing. I saw it, Airin! It was hideous and false, and – and so full of old magica. You never loved the Arts."

The man looked so regretful that Thrall had to believe his sincerity. "Things change, Jaina. No matter how much you may dislike it. Change came for me, and I'm afraid I changed with it. He offered my life, when it would have been lost, and I while I have never loved the Arts, I love my life very much."

She was crying openly now. The tears glistened warmly with reflected light from the memory-cage.

"The river. Zach used that old water-elemental stunt to save himself. Why did you not pay attention when I tried to teach you..."

"I tried, Jay, but you know me. Always the lazy one. I took the easy road, the downhill flow."

The lines were dimming, Thrall suddenly realized. How much time had passed? He had been so intent on the interaction between the Sorcerer and her friend, that he had not seen that the memory-cage was loosing strength. He should go get Drek'thar, but he was transfixed by the interarction between the Sorceress and her old friend.

"Jaina, the cage is weakening," he warned, but she was oblivious to him.

"Water has never been my cup of tea, Jaina. Not like you. You loved the sea, did you not? The wheeling gulls and the bright sails, riding on the waves on your father's great battleship."

She licked her lips anxiously, fixated upon the man, and Thrall dared not intervene. Not yet.

"Loved it until that faithful day. It was blowing that day, wasn't it? And you ran from him, without giving thought to the tide. I wonder what offer you would have pledged to, to be saved that day, or any other day he tried to touch you…"

Jaina's eyes widened until Thrall feared that the blue orbs would roll from their sockets. Then she let out a thin, brittle sound, disconcertingly like the shriek Snowsong had uttered when she had was hit by the spell. Except that this was no spell. Only the snare of some horrific past event.

"How could you… Of all of us, I trusted you the most. I told you – I told you everything!"

"You could not have foreseen this, Jay. I beg you, do not hate me. It is my master that forces there things from me. It is he who hurts you." He held out a hand, beckoning.

"I hate _him_," she whispered with determination, "and this must end." She raised a hand, stretched and reached through the shimmering lines of the memory-cage.

"Jaina, no!" Even as he moved forward like a striking snake, Thrall knew that he was too late. Once magic had gotten hold, no mere physical force could break it. She touched the man's hand. There was a rippling in the air that made his hair stand on ends, and ring of coruscating light moved over him. She slipped through his fingers like water and wind.

The last light of the memory-cage dimmed and died, but the human did not fall to the ground. Thrall's fist around his throat held his feet free of the ground.

"Where did you sent her? Where!?" he roared into the man's rapidly-reddening face. Airin's jaws worked and he spat out a few strangled noises.

"De man cannot talk like that, Warchief," someone said behind him. Not heeding the logic, Thrall tightened his grip till he felt the larynx give under his fingers.

"Where?" he screamed again. The man's eyes were glazing over now, and there was bloody foam in the corners of his mouth. Thrall didn't care.

"Where...?" Very carefully, he crushed the man's windpipe and snapped his neck. He held on to the twitching corpse for a moment, and then let it fall to the ground.

"You are not needed here," he told Hai'khin, who had come up to stand besides him.

"I see dat, Warchief," the troll remarked with a grin. Thrall glowered at him. Trolls. Infuriatingly and blessedly indifferent at the same time. Hai'khin, however, had decorum.

"What was de crime of that man, Warchief, and where is the Sorceress I was sent to treat?"

Damn it all to the the lowest pits of a Hell he did not even believe in.

"She went ahead," he said, turning to face the troll. "And we are going to catch up with her."

"Ahead you say? How are we goin' to be catching her, Warchief? Dat piece of carrion do not kiss an' tell. Oh, and that pointy-browed Priestess be flying in," he added.

Thrall wiped his hands. "Good."

Despite the severity of the situation, he was invigorated. That crunch of bone when the man's neck broke was the most satisfying thing in a very long time.

"I know where Jaina is. All there is to do is follow." _And hope, beg and pray there is anything left to save._

* * *

It had stopped raining, though the wind seemed to have picked up strength. Maybe it was just his wistful thinking, but Thrall was sure that he caught a whiff of pure greenery, spruce and ferns and moss, as they walked through the camp.

The only space big enough to allow a hippogryph to land was next to the camp's central fire. When he arrived, Thrall found the place thronging with people. A pack of wolf riders had gathered around Nazgrel and Ye'trag Hearttickler, and what looked to be all the Sentinels of his detachment were milling around, staring at the northern sky and whispering amongst themselves. Their tension was palpable. And close to the fire, where he had bid her wait, lay Snowsong, head on her broad paws. Sensing his presence, she struggled to stand. Thrall quickly stopped her, and the wolf sank back down with an exhausted yammer. He gave her jaw a light stroke.

"Would you take another look at her?" he asked Hai'khin.

The troll bent down, and poked lightly at Snowsong's nose with a long finger.

"Will see what I can do, Warchief," the healer said.

Reluctantly, Thrall turned his eyes to the sky. He had good eyes, and when a Sentinel cried out and raised her glaive to the sky, he quickly spotted three small, dark specks, moving rapidly towards them.

"Move out of the way. Hippogryphs incoming!" he shouted to the wolf-riders, who spread out to clear a landing tract. Soon, the specks had grown into three hippogryphs flying in a V. Two of the beasts were mounted by Sentinel archers with arrows nocked in anticipation of an attack, an escort for the two riders on the lead hippogryph. One of which had long, dark hair coiling in the wind, and the other greenish fur and horns. Thrall frowned. It was truly a day of surprises.

Whisperwind had brought along her tame satyr.

The hippogryphs descended in a tightening spiral, wings arched to break speed, and touched down with shrill, hawk-like cries. The hippogryph bearing the Priestess and the satyr came to a halt a few feet from Thrall, and the majestic creature furled its blue-green wings.

"A pleasure to see you again, High Priestess," he greeted her lightly, not wanting to rouse her temper.

Tyrande Whisperwind leaped gracefully from her hippogryph's back and regarded him coldly. The satyr remained in the saddle, clutching her stinger-tipped staff in both hands.

"Why have I been called to abandon my Sisters?" she demanded, not waisting any time on pleasantries. Thrall had to bite down on his tongue to keep from simply ordering the Priestess back on her hippogryph to get her troops marched up. Whisperwind's attachment to her people went beyond loyalty – it was an instinct created and honed over the course of ten thousand years. It was daunting and admirable, and it made it damnable hard to deal with her.

"Peace, Priestess," he cautioned. "I can assure you that you been called here with good reason." He retold the events of this morning, skimming over how Jaina had felt his inner turmoil.

Tyrande Whisperwind listened intently, her face and posture betraying no reaction until he came to how the necromancer had tricker Jaina into teleporting away.

"Silly, silly girl!" the night elf burst out with regret. "How can she do something so foolish? She is strong, yes, and brave, but alone she cannot be a match for our enemy."

"No, she will die if we don't make haste," he said, unable to keep his worry from shining through."

"She will, and our enemy has some skill with dead bodies. I also fear what can be learned from her, dead or alive."

"The more the reason for us to hurry," he implored, overcoming the naive whisper in the back of his mind that Jaina would never break, never betray them. Never die.

"We will hurry, Warchief, to save the girl and to see if it is true that only we, the leaders, can bring an end to this desecration of my homeland."

She turned to the satyr, and spoke a few words of her native tongue. Much to his surprise, the satyr moved forward in the saddle and nudged the hippogryph into motion. With a mighty flexing of the hoofed hind legs, the creature jumped into air, and took to the sky with fast wing strokes. Whisperwind's escort was about to give chase, and she called them to order with a sharp command.

"What was that for?" Thrall growled.

"She has her own motives," Whisperwind said cryptically, as she always was when attention was turned to her tame satyr. There was a bond between the night elf and the satyr, even a heretic show of affection, that sat very ill with Thrall, though he'd have to accept having Saih'Arihasoh around.

"I'll have to trust you on this one, Priestess," he said ominously.

"Oh, do not worry, young chieftain. We will be in time. I can guarantee that, for it will be bought in blood."


	12. The Vessel

Disclaimer: Warcraft and all associated characters and environs belong to Blizzard. I'm just a stranger in strange lands.

AN: So, the end is approaching. Or at the very least, some explanations...

WARNING - NOT BETA'ed! But I got sick of having it hanging around...

Chapter 11: The Vessel

_Terrible pressure engulfed her, and salty water filled her mouth. Briefly she struggled against the impossible sensations, and then a harsher fear than she had ever experienced blotted out every attempt at logic. She was drowning, her lungs were burning for air and her despite her frantic failings, she sank deeper and deeper. The stabbing pain of her eardrums bursting was the last thing she registered before all went black. _

Jaina gasped and sat up straight – or tried to. Her left leg was on fire, and she fell heavily back onto the hard surface. Her mind was full of mists and shadows, her thoughts silvery fish that slipped easily from her grasp. The terror of the memory was rapidly draining away, leaving her confused and weak. Slowly, she got her wits about her, and raised her head, and take a good look at her surroundings.

She gasped once more, this time in outright wonder.

Starry brilliance assaulted her eyes from every angle, glittering like new snow, like jewels and seaspray. It was so beautiful she felt tears gather in her eyes and her heart soared like a golden eagle, so quickly she had to hold onto it lest she lost it altogether. She was in a cave, high-vaulted and broad as a field. The ceiling and walls were crystalline and mirror-bright, the floor a smooth, milky surface, and no cathedral had even been so magnificent. She herself was laying on a mound of crystal that rose like an island from the white floor. The beauty of this place was mesmerizing, and Jaina only reluctantly tore free her eyes, and turned her attention to her pained leg.

To her amazement, she found nothing wrong. No wound, no fracture, not even a bruise or tiny scratch. And when she touched her bare skin, the pain seemed to melt away like morning dew under the sun.

She had no idea of where she was, how she got here, or what had happened. She tried to concentrate, and all but two things eluded her - her name and a feeling of overwhelming urgency. There was something very important she had to do, but she had no inkling what so ever as to what it was. She furrowed her brows and crossed her legs, tried to think, but again the thoughts swam away.

So bright, all around her. So beautiful.

Finally, she shook her head, and stood up. If she did not remember, it could not be so important, and so she might just as well take a closer look at this magnificent place. She stepped down from the crystal mound, and let out a gasp of surprise - her legs disappeared into the floor with a splash, all the way up to her calves. Belatedly, she realized that the floor was not floor at all, but liquid, warm and white as new milk. On instinct, she bend down, and gathered some of the liquid into her hands. It felt like silk against her skin. She took a sip. No taste, no sensation, other than smooth warmth.

Magic. Without really knowing how or why, she extended her senses beyond the physical realm, and probed the cave in a way she found both easy and stirring. She had learned to do this, in a place she did not remember, with other people whom she did not recall. Suddenly, the image of a tall glass, filled with a fiercely orange liquid, appeared to her mind's eye. Lion's-Eye, a drink not for the weak of heart. It burned a hot trail down your throat, and lay in your stomach like a purring lion, ready to jump up and claw your if you where not careful. There had also been a game, much played, and fun. The Lion's Game? Yes, that was it. The Lion's-Game, they had called it, because the prize was a glass of that fiery drink served at the rowdiest of the taverns - and therefore the most popular - around the Violet Citadel.

Jaina smiled. They had taken turns shaping spells with hidden images, cantrips that would fall like domino-pieces to reveal their true meaning. If you couldn't see through your challenge, the drinks were on you. She had been very good at it - her feel of the arcane was acute and her deductive skills great. A name appeared, bright and brimming with generosity. Airin. Her one contender had been Airin. For some reason, the lastborn son of a minor noblehouse, with more skill than will, was able to outsmart her again and again. There had always been a part of him that was hidden, she realized now. It worried her. Why, she did not know.

The flash of memory brought sadness with it, but it was quickly drowned in the feel of the cave - If it had been wonderful to the naked eye, it was a delight not of this world to her magical senses. Everywhere was the sparkle and pulse and shift of magic, ancient and so refined that her own powers seemed as raw as a claypot made by a one-armed drunk. She was humbled, and springtime-happy, and proud to be here. It truly was a cathedral, a holy place of great importance.

_Welcome, daughter of a proud father. _The words, shaped from pure magic with a precision that cut like a scalpel, hit her without warning. She recoiled, not only in shock but in remembrance. That presence, hungering, unbearable...

"No..." she protested weakly, as all happiness fled.

It rose from the liquid some paces away, slowly, contently, and moved towards her on two legs, dripping and grinning. The bright light illuminated every detail and facet of it, and Jaina felt her mouth go dry as it got closer, and bile rose in her throat. It was shaped roughly like a man, but near to ten feet in height, and seemed a mere scaffold of a living being - veins and organs placed like no anatomy she knew of, and held together by pinkish-yellow stretches of transparent skin. The eyes, silvery-red and large as a man's fist, seemed to hook onto her heart and pull her towards a hungry maw. Such hunger… it was crushing, and unbearable.

It was Hollow. And with the name came a black wave of awareness that wrapped around her without mercy, crushing her with knowledge.

Battlefields and fires, unholy death awakened, ships on a vast sea, new lands of endless grass and sand, a cavern deep in a sacred mountain, green-skinned humanoids – by the Light of All - orcs! Fighting alongside warriors in shining plate, peasants with hoes and straightened scythes, a tree of ancient power, and races of horns and night. Grave danger and the fall of an evil from beyond this world, decisions and alliances, a place as foul as a stagnant cesspool, and her mind being torn and haunted. A friend returned from the grave, only to find that he was further gone than if he had died. Her final, crazy teleportation, her name being yelled in denial. Jaina moaned and shuddered with the weight of it all. And still she could not tear her gaze from the Hollow One's burning, hungering eyes.

"Why do you do this?" she whispered. Her knees buckled under her, and she sat down heavily in the white liquid.

"Princess in a wet hell, I told you so all before." The Hollow One paused, and lifted a clawed hand. Jaina found herself straightening, unwillingly, like she was tethered to that hand by an invisible rope.

"I do not understand!" she screamed. "Why must we all suffer so?"

What an unreasonable, yammering bitch she had become. Moments before, she had been blessedly _unaware_, had forgotten about this nightmare by what she now took for just another torturous ploy to break her. And it worked. Her willpower had shriveled, even the desperate anger that had brought her here, lured by friendship and her own megalomaniac delusions.

How could she have fallen so? She had never been mad for any earthly power – if dominance over men and lands had been her goal, she would have stayed on Kul Tiras, made a prosperous marriage, moved pawns in her father's court. Her pride and joy had always been her skills, her true lover the ars magica. Yes, she was guilty of arrogance, she knew that well. But Light, was it so great a sin? She _was_ better than most. And yet all of her self-discipline and rationality had come crashing down like some gnomish flying machine out of fuel.

"Do not bring torture to other wounds, princess," the Hollow One said. "I did this, not you. Only me. Greatness, and you have no fault."

It only made it worse, even as she knew it as the truth. Who ever wanter to look into a true mirror?

"You did," she whispered, tears of bitterness dripping into the milky liquid, "but we offered no resistance. Brave knights, oh so clever magic-wielders, stout peasants - how weak we are to fall so easily!" She wrung her heart in acrid self-loathing until it felt like it would burn through her chest and fall sizzling into the warm, white waters. Golden eagle no more.

"You will do nicely," the thing, the font of her despair, said. The Hollow One had walked closer, and through teary eyes the Sorceress saw it loom over her, the red and purple of its tendons and organs gleaming in the crystalline brightness.

"Who are you?" Jaina snarled suddenly, throwing her head back and baring her teeth at the enemy. Madness.

"Not yet for you, but soon," it said, and then reached out with a clawed hand. She backed away, but her left leg flared with pain, and she would have fallen, was it not for the long fingers entangled in her blonde locks.

She yelped in pain, and then cried out sharply as the Hollow One pulled her upwards with a swift movement. An arm snaked around her waist and a hand came to support her head like she was a babe being cradled.

"In this world, there is no greater whip than love," it said, holding her tenderly. "For love, you do impossible things, strive to overturn earth and sky, to roll destiny into a tiny ball and throw it over the moon. For love, you kiss, rape, betray, adore and kill. It is beauty supreme, and dark or light, there is only one thread of existence. For love of himself, my sire created me, and named me Cynoval. The Vessel it means in your pale tongues, and it was his intend that I should gather his life if he was rend asunder."

Jaina listened with horrible fascination as the Hollow One, who's true name and purpose was Vessel, told her the brief story of its tainted existence.

"And I was laid here, in hallowed brightness, in deep sands, in sweet milk, and waited. Like you once did, wet princess in hell." It smiled, a horrible twisting of its half-made features, and Jaina shuddered in disgust. _Could it know...? _

"I was born of rage, breathed life into by death. The green tree burned and I rose from the ashes - phoenix with white wings."

Jaina's mind raced to try and make sense of the garbled words. She had been goaded here, of that she was sure, but perhaps there was a glimmer of hope in the darkness. There was _something_ about this place, this whole misbegotten mess, that triggered old knowledge. That must have been why she remembered the Lion's-Game - if only she could make heads and tails of this - there might be a weakness to exploit.

_Thrall_ - she reached down suddenly, and to her immense relief found that the link to the crystal beacon she had given to the Warchief was still intact, even stronger and more uninhibited than before. His anger, his distress, glowed like red hot coals in her mind, but even more, there was fear, and it was a sudden thrill to find that he was coming for her, that he was even now tearing through ranks of undead and demons to reach her - no! She rejected the thought violently. She had given him the beacon because they were allies in a war, and for no other reason! He was coming to kill the Hollow One, not for her. He had sworn an oath, and she would help him by letting him know what happened to her, so he might have a fighting chance.

_The green tree _- it could only be Teldrassil, the heart and soul of the night elves. The tree had not burned - it had burst apart under the mighty presence of all the roused spirits of Ashenvale, but the tree's destruction was a burning if ever she had known of one. A torching of the very foundation of a whole race, all of its worths and values. Perhaps it was a law of nature that such earth-shattering events would set into motion other dire things, like the toppling of a king will shift the patterns of power in his country. And two kings had fallen that day, for Archimonde had been grand in all of his supreme evil. Archimonde... She could not shake the name, it grew in her mind like a terrible fungus. Demon, lieutenant of Sargeras himself, ambitions and arrogance beyond mortal measures - Jaina suddenly froze, and stared at the specter in front of her in shock. There was no likeness, except for the two-legged stance. The Hollow One was unfinished and nauseating to look upon - and she knew why. Light be merciful, could it really be so sickeningly simple?

It was old wisdom, and she had never seen it practiced. It was considered somewhat barbaric, but the texts were still taught, and they held precise and quite nasty illustrations. _Homonculus._ A creature blessed with life through magic. In the old days, before the summoning of elementals and spirits became commonplace, wizards often used homonculi as servants. But Jaina knew, through studies of ancient scrolls that no-one but her bothered with, that homonculi could also be created as a spare body, a living phylactery if death should strike unexpectedly. Could it be so simple? Had Archimonde, for all of his otherworldly powers, used a technique she might know of?

"Archimonde created you," she said slowly, desperate to conceal her suspicion, "and he then died. He left you, empty, with nothing but a desire... a desire for what? Life?"

Cynoval laughed, an obscene gesture of rolling back raw flesh from square, too-big teeth.

"He who went before wanted much, and got little. I got little, and want much. All your gold shall be mine, princess," it replied. "You have much to give, and so has he. Pure gold you are, much to be desired, and much to gain. You are better than the rest."

_Better than the rest? _She shuddered. _Lover of three princes..._

But it could be true. Only one thing more -

"Do you hate me?" she asked calmly, looking straight into Cynoval's terrible eyes, and there was a quick, almost nonexistent, flash of loathing on the raw face. For a single, mad moment, she wanted to let out an orcish warcry of triumph, but she contained herself. The surety stayed with her, though. She had been right. And she had a plan then, hazardous and about as feasible as Kael'thas taking up pig-farming as a livelihood, but it could be done. It would require all her skills and maybe more, but it could be done.

She sent it through to the beacon, nonetheless, wordlessly communicating what would be required. She did not tell that for the plan to succeed, she did not need to be alive.

"I do not hate. You are my treasure," Cynoval told her, belying its own true core, and carefully put her down. The Sorceress curled up in the warm liquid, and closed her eyes. Fear was a tangible thing in her, now that she had hope, and she found it hard to breath.

_Antonidas, give strength to your wayward student, _she prayed, and began to weave the magic.

"Ini, the old ones called this place," Cynoval said softly. It did seem to have noticed the change in her. "A shielded place, a nurturing place, a pure place. Archimonde found it, and he laughed, for in such a place much can take root. And so he took his heart's desire, grinded his member upon holy soil, and so I was created, child of mind and body."

Jaina moaned. She was worn thin, and Cynoval's profane words heated her memories to a boil. In desperation, she pulled them over her like a shield to hide the spells she was forming.

There she was, in darkness on his feather bed, moist and ready, shrouded only in the silk of her fair hair, and there, a golden boy with brash and honest words, and then - no barriers left at all. Oh, how she had adored him, a radiant presence in her lonely life with beloved, but busy and stern father and a mother much to preoccupied with courtly intrigues and marriage-brokering to act as one. _The scaffold was there._

Until the day she had asked him to leave while she changed into a new gown for dinner, and he had just smiled at her request, and kept siting on the edge of her bed. She had thought he was making fun, and had stuck out her tongue and lifted the hem of her plain skirt teasingly, expecting him to run from the room with a mock scream. Instead he had smiled even more, and kept watching. Unsure of the situation, and not wanting to be a coward in front of him, she had felt she had no choice but to keep undressing. And so she had, slipped out of the woolen skirts of playtime and in an embroidered, blue gown of silk that had settled like cool water around her already-curvaceous body. It had begun that day, with a refusal and a smile._ The spell-matrices to draw in material from the cave upon release. _

She honestly did not remember what day it had been, when he did not keep sitting, but got to his feet and kissed her. She had been frozen in disbelief, her thoughts reduced to chaos, as her brother stuck his tongue into her mouth and palmed her left breast firmly. He had let it be at that for some time. Strangely, she had never considered locking her door, by key or by magic, or to tell their parents. She had been so focused upon him, and how to avoid him. It had gone on, the kisses and the strokes and smiles, until he had one day pulled up her skirts and done something to her that _hurt _and made her bleed. He had done it again, and again, and sometimes he had wanter her to touch him, running hands and mouth over hard, pink flesh, while he moaned her name in her ear. It had stopped hurting and bleeding, but the shock had never left her. _It would be his touch, and not hers, that would activate the gem. _

One day, in the late afternoon, he had dared to caress her leg, under the table, at a formal dinner. Unseen perhaps, but seated at the table were their father and mother, sisters and brothers, barons and earls and high noble, captains and paladins, and they were surrounded by courtiers and gossiping ladies-in-waiting and an army of servants. It had been the final straw - though he hid the gesture, he was still bringing her shame into the open, somehow demeaning her even more than she had thought possible. She had emptied her mind, sat at the table like a porcelain doll, the perfect princes in all regards save one. _The gem was perfect in her mind, flawless as if it already was manifest in the physical world. The nature of magic - to shape thoughts to such perfection that reality had to admit defeat and conform. _

She had held out, through formal dances and courting, and all men in the room, also her father, had seemed to leer at her and her shame. She had hated herself in her lowcut dress and layered skirts. _Whore_, the whole room seemed to whisper at her, and when Tandred came to claim her hand for a dance, she had broken down and fled. He had called for her, and it only spurred her further on. In her panic, she had run for her favorite spot, the small strip of beach between the castle's Seawall and the treacherous waters of the Bay of Tiras. Her only coherent thought was that he must not catch her, that she had to get away, far far away. She very nearly got her wish. The tides in the Bay were strong and surging, and she had not been aware of the flood coming in until her shoes got wet. And by then it had been nearly too late. Exhausted, frightened, confused, she tried to outrun the waters, only to stumble in her long skirts, suddenly as lead as they became wet. She nearly lost her life that day - her last memory was of blurry, cold darkness, her lungs burning with lack of air and her ears aflame with pain.

She was saved, the princess of Kul Tiras was dragged from the sea, blue-lipped and limp, by a fisherman out deep-fishing for the rare feathertailed lobsters for which the island was famous. He had thought her dead, and that had been close to the truth. He had been glassy-eyed, they had later told her, when he delivered what he thought was a dead princess wrapped in an old blanket to the harbour guard. He had been rewarded well, and she had been healed and then punished duly - confined to her rooms for weeks, because she refused to tell her father why she had acted so. Daelin Proudmoore loved his children well, but he had little patience for weakness and stupidity. _It was done. Now all she needed for power. And the memories would not be denied._

In a way, she had gotten her reward as well, for Tandred never toucher her again. He _did_ love her; it was written all over his stricken face when he came to her sickbed. Loved her in his own twisted sense, and when he understood what his love had driver her to, he left her alone with her ghosts and newly-acquired fear of water. Her brother's gifts of love to her. Oh, and dear Light, she had kept them close, cherished them... She saw the errors of her ways now, but it was too late. She would have no use for clarity when Cynoval was done with her.

Cynoval - the Vessel, it had said its name meant. Jaina's fevered mind clung to this like a dying hound to its prey.

"You want what you were promised," she said out loud, and Cynoval bobbed its head.

"Princess so clever," it grinned. "I was created ripe with the promise of life, and I want it all."

"Why us?"

Cynoval seemed to consider, raw brows becoming crooked in an almost human fashion. It was learning quickly, Jaina saw.

"The three of you, splendid in every possible way. Suns of your races, and how happy I bubble with joy when I found that two suns dance with each other."

Its speech was rapidly becoming incomprehensible again, and Jaina knew that she was running out of time. It would want its gold, and soon.

It slashed out, suddenly, and despite her shivering weariness, Jaina flinched at the screech of claw upon crystal. A large flake of clear mineral fell away from the cave wall and splashed into the _ini-_water. The homonculus raised its hand, and looked with mild curiosity at the thick, dark blood seeping from the torn claw.

"Resistance all around me, but I have time, more than you and all of you." The flesh flowed upwards, gripped on to the root of the claw and pulled it back, sealing any trace of a wound. Cynoval brought its hand down again, another piece of rock tore loose and tumbled into the water.

"In you, there are things that take up more space than on the outside. You shine in his presence, and I grow strong in that glow."

Jaina began to cry.

And Cynoval, the Vessel, strode through the white liquid, and bend down, crouched in front of her until their faces were level with each other. It had no breath, and no heat, only a terrible emptiness, and Jaina felt like a thick needle had been stuck into her chest and was now sucking - slurping - away at her insides, dreams and intestines and blood. All that was her. All. And it hurt - hurt so much she prayed for death, for insanity, for anything that would end it.

She got none of it. By some unfathomable curse, her conscience remained steel-sharp, and she witnessed with superb awareness as Cynoval's skeletal face gained substance. Flesh and fat crawled over the sharp cheeks like glistening snails in a web of nerves, skin grew on the naked scalp, and the silvery-red eyes blinked with new lids. It took it all, her questions and her answers, her love and hate and the flower in her heart. And her tears stopped flowing.

Finally, after a second, after a thousand years, it stopped. The needle in her chest was withdrawn and the pain with it. Quietly, with eyes like dry wells, Jaina collapsed, and the waters flowed over her still body.


	13. Light in the Darkness

Disclaimer: I f*cking finally finished! I own all!

A/N: Woooooot!

Chapter 12: _A Light in the Darkness_

"What haunts your mind, Priestess?" Thrall asked casually, giving the night elf riding at his side a cursory glance. She was a sight to be sure, almost as tall as him, even though her tiger was a good hand span lower than Gnasher, straight as a birch-tree and glittering with all the magic of night and the silvery moon. And she was tense, so high strung it was a wonder she did not break in the harsh wind.

"What doesn't?" she hissed, her annoyance clearly not directed at him, but at the situation at large. Then she let out a short, sharp laughter, and glared at him with those unfathomable, phosphorescent eyes.

"Stop trying to goad me, Son of Durotan. It does you little honor, and you will gain even less." Her tiger cut suddenly to the left, away from the narrow path to dart in and out between the darkened trunks like a dragonfly on a pond.

"Elements whip you, Whisperwind!" Thrall roared after her, making no effort to hide his feelings. He did not detest the night elf, truly, but she still refused to tell the truth about Saih'Arihasoh and this "prize of blood" she muttered about, and he was nearly at the end of his rope. Just now - if she had not moved out of the way, he would have wrung her like a rag until she coughed up some answers, High Priestess or not.

"We can do without her, Warchief," a deep voice spoke to his right. Thrall turned to see Nazgrel and Lacktooth gaining on him, and with a grimace he made room for his second-in-command.

"This must be a stroll in the woods, since you think us safe enough to abandon your post," he grumbled.

Nazgrel lowered his head momentarily, but only repeated his words.

"Sing me another song, Nazgrel," Thrall snapped. "You know as well as I that victory relies on the three of us. Three!" He kicked Gnasher hard, driving the alpha into a frenzied run that put Lacktooth into a lather.

"You are only two left, and that Priestess does nothing to aid our victory!" Nazgrel yelled at him. Thrall suddenly felt like the ground had been yanked away under Gnasher's paws. He swallowed, trying to regain control of his insides.

"Don't say that," he muttered hoarsely. "She is still alive. I know that she is!" The crystal beacon was at his belt, still carrying a star of light in its center the last time he looked. _Calm yourself_, he thought. She had felt his distress through the stone. It had to work both ways. It had to.

"If you say so, my lord," Nazgrel conceded tactfully, and Thrall was glad to let the subject fall. He was not even allowing himself the mention of her name lately.

"What's going on down in the rear?" he asked, letting Gnasher fall back into a more manageable pace.

"One of the scouts reported. At this speed, we will reach Irontrees in less than an hour. He has found a clearing close by that will be perfect for regrouping."

"Good. And the enemy?"

"The numbers seems to be steady. A small influx from the south, but no more than twenty or so, undead mostly."

Thrall nodded. Whisperwind's reason seemed to hold true. Now that the Hollow One was as good as assured of their pursuit, it had relinquished its control of the remnant demons, letting many get away. Those that remained seemed to have been warped into total submission, serving a purpose that could be nothing more than providing a steady flow of pain and misery.

Sensing that he had calmed down, Whisperwind rejoined him on the path, and Nazgrel slunk away. One female he might grudgingly accept, but not two, and never this one.

**************************

On the map, the entrance to the cave was only a black dot on the browns and greens of the forest, colors of another time when this place had been as verdant as the rest of Ashenvale. The circumference of the surrounding valley was marked with delicate shading. In comparison to this intricate diagram, the maps he had been shown during his imprisonment seemed like a child's crude doodles.

"Before," Whisperwind said softly, "Irontree Woods was a wild place, ripe with elemental energies and home to many tree elementals - treants - that herded the giant Irontrees for which the place is named. It cannot be chance that the enemy has chosen this place as its base. I have not spoken of this before," - Thrall snapped the branch he had been idly spinning between his fingers in two - "but this place holds a reservoir of _ini_ and if the Hollow One has found it, there is no telling how it can have fouled and exploited it."

"Eeniey?" Merrehen Gildhaft said with a raised eyebrow. The word had not been translated by the spell that made it possible for the leaders to communicate.

Whisperwind shook her head. "It is such a simple term, and so difficult if one is not at peace with the world. Maybe "milk" will suffice. Ini nourishes." She fell silent. They pondered her words for a moment, and then Thrall spoke.

"It heals?" he questioned. "Can it make the Hollow One impossible to kill?"

Whisperwind gave them a despairing look - clearly she thought them all ignorant.

"Ini is not a healing draught, Warchief. Ah, I said it wrong. Ini is better explained as the womb of the mother, protecting, nourishing and shaping. There is no telling what our enemy will become if immersed in ini."

"I would have preferred the healing potion an' immortality!" Ennon Gemeye muttered. "Demons are seeds of evil, and seeds grow." They all looked away from the dwarf, as if to deny the truth of what he said. Thrall threw the broken bits of branch on the ground, stepped forward, and poked a large finger down on the map.

"It changes nothing. The Hollow One will have to die, and as we have already discussed, there is only one way to make it dead. We go in after it."

"Not we. You, Warchief, only you." Arms crossed, the sword on his back so big that the hilt rose over one shoulder and the blade tapered to an end below the opposite knee, Ye'trag Hearttickler stepped into the circle of leaders.

Thrall regarded the former Wolfrider Captain warily. Ye'trag had withdrawn from the chain of command lately, and to Thrall it looked like he was preparing to take up the lonely wanderings of a Bladesmaster again, and he could not help but resent him for this. He trusted - needed - Ye'trag and his cool head, but in anger, he had simply turned his back on the Bladesmaster.

"Explain yourself, Ye'trag," he said tersely.

"Simple, my Lord. It is no longer the death of many demons that we seek - it is the death of one - and only you honored three can end it. The Sorceress is already there, and in a manner of speaking, so is the Priestess. Only you are missing, my lord. Please, I beg of you. Go, and end this nightmare." Ye'trag's face was like an open wound, suddenly, so far removed from his normal, stony facade that Thrall for a moment feared the Bladesmaster had lost his mind. Then he realized the truth. Ye'trag did not carry the wound. It was in himself.

"Get up, Ye'trag, and run. Far, far away, where I cannot strike you down. NOW!!" The Bladesmaster was on his feet and running for the forest before the last word had left Thrall's mouth. Tagar, hovering at the edge of the war-council, looked of a mind to intercept Ye'trag, but thought better of it, and sidestepped to allow the orc his escape. As the Bladesmaster disappeared into the forest like a shadow, Thrall held up his shaking hands. He had been about to do it, so strong was the surge of envy that it had taken every ounce of his discipline to keep from smashing in Ye'trag's skull. At least that explained why he had kept his distance. To be unaffected in this place... He had a sudden chill. Might it be worse than the hell the rest of them injured?

With heavy heart, he turned and gazed in turn at each of his follow leaders: Human, dwarf, night elf - was this to be the last gathering, or the first? Their expressions were apprehensive, frayed, allowing all the hurts and blemishes underneath to poke through like the stuffing in an old rag-doll. He thought is was like looking into a three-fold mirror, and again, he had to remind himself that if he broke a mirror, all that he shattered was a mere reflection.

"You who have stood and fought with me for so long, held out against dangers and temptations neither of us could have imagined," he began, going to great length to keep his voice even, and his words civilized. If Whisperwind was ice, the dwarf was stone, his artificial eye gleaming warmer than his living one, and the paladin was returning his gaze with a loathing that was quite impressive. There would be trouble from that one, Thrall realized, provided that they survived. He uttered a silent prayer, not to the Elements, but to his long-dead parents, and the love that had created him, and he thought that he felt the haze lift for a moment, and he was able to speak freely.

"The Bladesmaster spoke the truth, and we all know it. We have fought the Hollow One with iron and spell, and it has brought us naught but death and despair. Yes, we have culled the ranks of our foes, but to what avail? Much more of this, and we will be no better than the demons." He paused and swallowed to wet his mouth, dry from the long speech, when Gildhaft held up his hand.

"That we all know, Warchief. The Light does not shine easily in these woods. We see the path ahead, and to save Lady Proudmoore in her foolishness, I am willing to lay down my life." Slowly, they all nodded.

"Me, then," he said.

"You," they agreed.

************************************************************

The valley was as dismal a sight as anywhere in the Felwood. Great craters pock-marked the valley floor, and the misshapen remains of enormous trees rose to the sky like broken towers from a central body of greenish water. The terrain was rocky, but open enough for a mounted charge. To the north, the land sloped up into broad, stony plateaus, and it was up there he had to go. Straining his keen eyes, he thought he spotted a dark cavity to the north, but it might also be shadows. The demons and undead, mere pinpricks from this distance, filled the valley floor, and overhead, dark shapes wheeled and screamed on the wind.

He turned to Whisperwind, once more riding at his side, and asked her straight out.

"Is Saih'Arihasoh your daughter?"

The Priestess smiled, her smile full of the enigma of womanhood.

"No, but she might as well be. You orcs are perceptive." Her lips tightened. "How else could she take my place? Her blood bought my freedom, so to speak. Ah! _Aryai'dahalh, _if all goes well, you will see her soon. Tell her that I do not hate her."

"I will. Can I know her name?"

"No. That, she has not yet earned." Thrall's elite Wolfriders approached, and Whisperwind fell silent. They formed a protective spear-head around the Warchief, and true to his word, Merrehen Gildhaft had abandoned his soldiers to ride with them. Around this central hub, the rest of the army shaped itself into the strangest battle-formation Thrall had ever seen - something like a fork with two, curved prongs - one point to be led by Nazgrel, the other by Tyrande Whisperwind. It was all meant to clear the way for him, and see him safely inside the cave. Thereafter - he would be on his own.

"Elune be with you, Warchief," Whisperwind said earnestly, and steered her tiger to her assigned position. On his right, Nazgrel beat a fist against his chest once, in salute. For a moment, there was silence, then Tyrande raised her fair voice to let it ring like a trumpet over the forest.

"For the honor of Elune! Attack, and remember! Protect the Warchief at all costs!" She loosed a flaming arrow faster that the eye could follow. The projectile cut a magnificent arch over the valley, searing against the dark, roiling clouds.

The answering calls of the Sentinels rose high and sweet above the coarser battle cries of humans and orcs, but not less fierce.

For him. All for him.

The army descended into the valley and crashed into the waiting demons, undead and satyrs, but hemmed in on all sides by allies as he was, Thrall did hardly catch a glimpse of enemy flesh. Under him, Gnasher trembled and snarled in protest of being denied a fight, but the alpha kept running and appeased his thirst for blood by snapping right and left, tearing limbs and heads from any fallen foe they passed. And how he understood the wolf! He wanted nothing more than to break free of the sheltering formation and lead the charge, lightnings blazing from his hand, protecting instead of being protected. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers deeper into Gnasher's fur. With Gildhaft on the left, dealing death and healing in equal measures, and his own elite guard on the right, fighting like possessed for their chieftain, and further out, the two prongs of the army scything through the enemies, not a single demon got through to him.

They were racing along the greenish lake, halfway across the valley, when Thrall felt a surge of corrupted energy all around them, and he barely had time to yell a warning before the lake boiled upwards and spewed forth vaguely humanoid shapes composed of water and wood and all fury.

"Elementals!" he gasped. In horror, he watched the twisted elementals attack everything in their vicinity, smashing and smothering with quiet satisfaction. This was no trick of the Hollow One's; rather, it was a primeval reaction from the forest, convulsing to expel the intruders. He heard the desperate yells and horns being sounded as commanders fought to keep their forces under control, but knew that it would hardly matter. The Felwood itself had risen against them. He turned Gnasher around.

"NO! Keep going!" Gildhaft veered his stallion around and blocked Thrall's path. "I have to try and calm the forest," he shouted back. "Out of my way, or I will kill you, human!"

"Then she will be lost!" Thrall stiffened, and stared at Gildhaft, who glared back with open disgust. "You -" the paladin began, but his words were lost in the sudden thunder of wings overhead. They looked up, and Thrall felt his heart stop in his chest. Corrupted elementals he could comprehend, but this...!

A dragon rode the wind above them, and it was huge; no, gargantuan, filling the whole sky with its bulk. Once it must have been magnificent, a sky-king of fierce intellect and magic, with bright scales and sweeping wings. Now all that was left was a horrifying hulk of tattered, brown-mottled skin and brittle bones clothed in translucent flesh, and it hung over them like a harbinger of death, the ultimate perversion of life. It dwarfed the frost-breathing specimens they had killed before, like a whale dwarfs an eel. And it would doom them all.

The undead dragon beat its wings, climbing rapidly, and the battle turned to chaos as some fighters ran, while others stood immobilized with supernatural fear. Gildhaft's horse whinnied in fear, and bolted. Even Gnasher backed down, covering like a pup. The dragon dived.

"Seek cover! Get away!" he bellowed, even as his rational mind fought to accept the reality of the threat. A dragon. They had not prepared for a dragon. How can one ever prepare for a dragon?

The dragon dived, shrugging through desperately loosed arrows and spells like it was summer rain. Blue frost radiated from its jaws, engulfing and shattering elementals and the living alike. The sweep of the dragon's wings cut over Thrall's head like the blade of an axe, sending his braids flying and had him taste metallic fear on the back of his tongue. This was the Hollow One's answer to the Felwood, and as soon as the dragon had dealt with the elementals, it would turn on the puny mortals.

He yanked at Gnasher's fur, forcing the great wolf around, and called upon ice to encase the dragon's wings. If they could force it to the ground... A thin sheet of ice did form, but he was not himself, and the ice cracked and fell away. The dragon opened its jaws in silent mockery, and beat its wings in preparation for another devastating flight over the valley. Snarling a curse that could crack stones, Thrall looked around for Whisperwind, a magic-used, anyone that could help bring down the dragon. He spotted the Priestess' white tiger on the other side of the valley, racing towards him followed by her Sentinels, and he kicked Gnasher into a hard gallop.

"A CHALLENGE, WORM OF HELL!" The voice cracked over the valley like a whip, raw with pain and contempt, and heads turned to see a lone figure appear on the northern rise, above the dark cave opening. In one hand, the figure held high a blade as long as a human stood tall - broad, unadorned steel - and the single edge shone red with blood. The Challenge. The dragon roared in answer. Perhaps it was amused; perhaps the magic of the Challenge compelled it. The monstrosity changed course and sped towards the north.

"Ye'trag, don't!" Thrall whispered. "I cannot lose you to."

The Bladesmaster leaped from the cliff, his sword leading the way. And the dragon rose up to meet him with jaws wide open, jagged teeth gleaming like old ivory. Even a blade as strong as Rimcleaver could not stand against the teeth of a dragon, but that had never been Ye'trag's intent. In the last instance, he twisted in the air, got a foot on the dragon's jaw, and pushed off in a spin. The gleam of his blade became a whirlwind of silver, and he cut into the desiccated tissue under the dragon's jaw with savage force. The dragon screamed and flailed, somersaulted under the dark sky in a spastic dance to rid itself of the parasite digging into its throat.

Thrall watched, mesmerized, and then shook his head. This was his chance, he realized. Even the barely sentient ghouls were drawn to the struggle in the sky.

"Live," he muttered, and steered Gnasher uphill.

***********************************************

He reached the cave unhindered, and dismounted at the entrance. Hesitating, he stared into the muted, damp-smelling darkness. Behind him, there was a blast of noise and distantly he felt the earth tremble, but he did not turn around.

"You are free to fight now," he told Gnasher as he sent the wolf away, and stepped into the darkness.

The cave was long and narrow and the floor smooth like it had been worn down by many feet. He walked slowly at first, but faster as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. At the end of the cave, he found a tunnel that twisted down into the bedrock. There was a stench of demon and carrion around, but he met no enemies. As the last speck of light disappeared behind him, Thrall found it easy to believe that he was all alone in the blackness. Relying on his sense of smell and hearing, his time became a hunter's now, and he walked, sometimes crawled, waded through icy streams and hot pools, and perceived how strange creatures scuttled out of his way.

He was in a gallery of interconnected caves when the voice came to him. He crouched, and heard soft, two-legged footsteps coming towards him. The Doomhammer was of little use in such close quarters, and instead he picked a dagger from his belt, and waited. A flickering point of light came into view, and he nearly dropped his weapon in shock.

Saih'Arihasoh was standing in front of him, silent as a ghost, her face as expressionless as a sheet of snow. In her right hand, she held her stinger-tipped staff - the left arm hung limply at her side, and he thought it wounded, until the satyr lifted it, and pointed at him.

"Da'iliey," the creature said softly, and when all he did was frown, she motioned for him to follow, and then turned on her heel.

Thrall hesitated for a moment, then got up, and let the satyr lead him deeper into the bedrock. It was said that children, the drunk and the insane would lead you to the truth, but which of these that walked before him, he dared not even guess at.

For an eternity they walked, traversing a network of caves and passages so complex that Thrall quickly was utterly lost. Sometimes they moved in darkness so thick it seemed to wrap around like a living thing, other times strange lichens, or even the rocks themselves, gave off a phosphorous glow, strong enough for the orc's sharp eyes to make out every detail of his surroundings. Strange smells, earthy and sharp, filled his nostrils, and strangely, he thought he caught a whiff of snow from one of the tunnels they passed.

Saih'Arihasoh moved like a shadow, silent and liquid, carefully placing each foot and only once did she pause to strike out with her staff to leave a ten-feet centipede twitching on the ground, its countless legs stabbing the air in death cramps. Thrall smashed the creature's tiny head with his metal-plated boot, and wiped the hemolymph from his sole on a patch of pale moss.

"Where are you taking me?" he whispered in orcish, certain that Saih'Arihasoh did not comprehend, and speaking mostly to himself. He could have chosen not to follow Whisperwind's tame Satyr, who had never shown any gratitude for the rescue of her village, who had never helped them, never pointed out the way - before now. Perhaps it was instinct, though Thrall at this point was unwilling to trust even his own gut feeling. Madness, he decided. They were all mad, and Saih'Arihasoh would lead him to a splendid and deep realm where they would reign as king and queen of the demented.

Instead, Saih'Arihasoh brought up on a high ledge. Putting a finger to her lips, she crept to the edge, and Thrall followed as quietly as possible. Peering down, he was met with a sight that nearly had him leap over the edge despite the more than 30 feet down.

Crouching down in a vast cave of such gleaming brightness it was blinding after so long time in the dark, was a long, spindly figure, unfinished and raw. Vestigial wings jutted from the lean shoulders, and the eyes were huge and silvery-red like blood and mercury. _Hollow One_ his mind screamed in rage, bringer of misery, corrupter and murderer! Never in all of his life had he felt such a base desire for death. It felt like a thousand tiny fires ignited in his veins, and he would have jumped, had not Saih'Arihasoh placed a cool hand on his arm, and said a single word.

_"Jaina."_

The name cut through the red haze of his rage, and he drew in a shuddering breath of disbelief. The tiny silhouette that was kneeling in before the demon, radiating deep despair, how had he not seen her before now? Golden hair, pale skin, lithe body and the torn remnants of a purple cloak - and Thrall drank in the sight of her desperately.

"Alive," he moaned with equal part joy and disbelief, and Saih'Arihasoh looked at with luminous eyes. And then the Hollow One moved close to her, and he watched in horror as new flesh and skin flowered on the ragged frame, even as Jaina sank into the milky waters.

"No," he moaned, hardly aware that he was speaking aloud, and then all turned red.

"NO! AWAY FROM HER, YOU BASTARD!"

The Doomhammer was metal and stone, crafted with a mighty, square head meant for smashing bones and skulls. It was not a weapon to be thrown with any kind of accuracy, but Thrall was more skilled than most warriors, and his throw was fueled by all the anger, rage and fear that had festered in his soul for weeks. The Hammer flew through the glittering air like a swallow and crashed into Cynoval's face with a sickening _crunch_. The left side of the demon's newly-formed face caved in, and skin and muscles were torn away to reveal fangs and molars in a permanent grin. The demon staggered backwards, bringing a hand to its face, and the silver-red eyes rolled in shock as the hand came away covered in blood and splinters of bone.

"You hurt me," it rasped, looking upwards to the ledge, and for a single heartbeat, something vulnerable played in the creature's ruined face, the hurt of a child being hit by a loving parent. Then the moment passed, and the Hollow One hunched over and scooped Jaina's limp form from the liquid.

"Is she of use to you, Lord Slave? She has no more sweetness for Cynoval," it slobbered, tensed it's arm and flung the Sorceress away with frightening ease, and roaring, Thrall launched himself over the edge. He hit the floor of the cavern in an explosion of white water, and was up and running instantly, and the song of the Elements filled him, suddenly, pure and unclouded again.

The Hollow One, Cynoval, stood to meet him, eyes blazing and form changing. Fingers elongated into gleaming, scythe-like claws, a mane of fleshy appendages sprouted from neck and right chin and a dull, uneven carapace spread over its torso and limbs to create the semblance of armor. And around it the whiteness of the water dimmed and turned dark and lifeless.

They came together, demon and Warchief, in a clash that seemed to shake the foundation of the cave. Every caution and strategy was thrown to the wind, and sheer power was all that mattered as they wrestled back and forth in the shining water. Cynoval's claws dug deep into Thrall's back, but the Warchief was beyond physical pain. All he knew was that the end, for good or bad, was near.

Calling upon Earth to fortify his bones and flesh, he landed punch after punch to the demon's stomach and felt the carapace give under his gauntlets, even as the metal itself was crumbling and cutting into his hands, and he felt the Hollow One shudder as it realized that this crazed, green-skinned beast was its equal in rage and strength, and that it possessed a spirit that was incorruptible. Cynoval had dug deep and laid bare Thrall's worst fears, amplified his weaknesses and his wants, but as Blackmoore before, the homunculus had to learn the hard way that there was a core of nobility in the son of Durotan that was simply unquenchable. Laid bare like shining gold beneath the madness and blood-thirst, he was pure at last and the power of the Elements and Ancestors filled him to overflowing. The _ini_-water around his legs glowed silver and silk, brightness to oppose the darkness, and Thrall felt his wounds close and new strength surged through his body. He roared into Cynoval's broken face and plunged his fist, iridescent with the weight of the Elements, into the demon's belly. The carapace splintered, and he dug upwards, hunting for the demon's heart -

_DO NOT KILL HIM_

The message, pleading, desperate and yet as unyielding as diamond, stabbed into his conscience, and Thrall halted, confused.

_Jaina? _The crystal beacon pulsed hotly and he heard her as clearly as if she was screaming into his ear. _Death will only set him free to haunt us. Please, I know how to - _Cynoval's jagged claws tore into his neck and drove her sweet presence from his mind in a shock of pain, and he staggered backwards, dragging the demon along as his hand was still lodged in its stomach.

He gasped and his gaze was caught by Cynoval's quicksilver eyes. He saw fear. Then he knew that Jaina was right. And Cynoval knew that he knew.

The demon turned tail. It threw itself backwards and with an obscene, sucking sound it managed to pull itself from Thrall's fist. Keening out in a language that raked his skin like claws, the demon began to waver and fade.

"NO!" Thrall cried out desperately, frantically. It could not be! He raced at the demon with his full weight, and to his horror he felt no resistance. It was getting away!

"SOLIDIFY IMPRISON!"

Greenish light erupted around the demon, and Thrall was flung back like he had hit a brick wall. The pain hardly registered, however. He just stared numbly at the sight in front of him.

The demon was caught in mid-flight in a cocoon of solid, green light, every feature visible, if oddly distorted and tinted, and the eyes burned with a fear of proportions not of this world. And suddenly, there was nothing he wanted more than to get out of here, far, far away from this place of evil and madness and brightness. Out under a clear sky where the horizon was open and the wind strong.

"Is it over?" he whispered and from behind him a thin voice, still trembling with the echo of power, answered: "It is."

Those two, simple words was a catharsis. All of the terrible happenings of the past months - the flight from Lordaeron, landfall on foreign shores, the Oracle, new and most unexpected alliances, battles for the sake of the world, deaths and depravity and losses so great it tore at soul and sanity - it all came boiling up and spilled from him in mighty, heaving sobs. He fell to his knees and cradled his face in his shaking hands and cried.

***************************

"It is." She forced the words past the all-encompassing fatigue and watched with a kind of detached sense of wonder what the two simple words did to the mighty Warchief that had wrestled with a demon and won. His face, which she had grown so accustomed to portraying only anger and hostility, dissolved into a violent maelstrom of emotions - confusion, sorrow, relief, grief, joy, all fought for a place on his tusked visage. His whole body slumped and then began to shake, and he fell down on his knees and hid his face in his warrior-hands.

She walked over on stiff legs, well aware that she had no strength of her own, that the might of this place was all that held her bones together.

"Don't..." she pleaded. "You must have strength, for I have nothing left, and if you break, so will I, and I am our way out..."

She wanted nothing more than to do as he did, and dissolve, dive into a turbulent sea of emotions and loose herself. But that would be the death of her, she was too exhausted. She would never be able to put herself back together. So she just stood there, ragged and dripping, and waited for him to act.

Slowly, after how long time she did not know, he slowly raised his head and wiped away the screen of water, blood and tears from his face and hoisted himself upright.

"I think," he groaned, "that I can manage that," and for some Light-forsaken reason she burst out laughing. It just seemed so silly. After all that they had gone through. He thought he could manage... Jaina shook her head, and then gasped as her left leg caved in under her with a jolt of pain.

She was never close to falling. Thrall scooped her into his arms like she was a feather, and held her close, and she savored the closeness with savage glee. She laid her cheek against his armor, imagining that she could feel the beating of his strong heart through the cold metal.

"What did you do, Jaina?" he said, and she blinked, suddenly aware that she had been falling asleep. She forced her mind to focus.

"The light – it traps Cynoval in its body, turning it into a kind of Soulgem," she explained, using a term he knew, though not one carrying fond memories. She saw his face tighten, and knew that he thought of Grom Hellscream.

"I have seen you do so," he said harshly, and she smiled without joy. "Yes, but the spell I used for Hellscream was much less - robust. Cynoval called itself the Vessel, and I - changed that. I fused it... the half-finished essence that Archimonde left behind, with the constructed body. I made it... submit to the laws of life... so it could no longer spread its influence. It is a high art. Antonidas himself would be hard-pressed to do it better." She finished off her ramblings with a sardonic tone.

"For eternity?" he asked.

"Eternity is a long time," she said with a grimace. "As long as the body lasts, the Spirit will stay imprisoned. I think that as long as the _ini_ is here, it will sustain him, as it did me. I don't know what will happen if the body dies... I will have to study -"

"Jaina, stop the lecturing and tell me – is there any way to kill it?"

She paused. And then shook her head. "Killing will set the Spirit free. Until I know of how to – undo the creation..."

"Yes, I understand," the Warchief said gently. "Now, please take us out of this hellhole." Wholeheartedly agreeing to his revulsion, she briefly closed her eyes and relaxed in his hold, basking in his solidity, before trying to summon up the necessary mana to teleport them out of there.

A low moan echoed through the cave. Thrall tightened his hold on her, whirling around with a snarl like a cornered wolf.

Cynoval was still hatefully suspended in light, and Thrall stood frozen for a moment, trying to locate the source of the sound.

"Saih'Arihasoh," Jaina whispered. "She – I woke up and she was at my side. I thought she was dead."

"Where?" he asked, and quietly she pointed to the wall. A heap of greenish fur was visible against the whiteness.

Thrall carried her through the milk-water in great splashing steps and looked down grimly on the limp figure.

"Put me down," Jaina said, and he carefully complied. She found the healing potion in her pouch, and was about to break the seal when Thrall put a restraining hand on her hers, covering both her hand and the bottle.

"Do you have more than healing than that?" She blinked, and it took a moment to wrap her mind around such a practical matter, and reply that no, she had only one.

"One potion will not save her life," he said quietly. "Ten potions would not. You was supposed to die. Now she is going in your stead. I can feel it."

She wanted to protest his harsh logic, but his eyes silenced her. He was right.

"We owe you our very souls," the Warchief said quietly. "Whatever you original sin, I don't care anymore. You have redeemed yourself, and I promise that your story will never be forgotten. Dha'magh izh. Tyrande Whisperwind told me to tell you that she does not hate you." He spoke for both of them, and Jaina found that she still had it in her to cry.

"Re'ishnal – hraggh – Ataian. Thiel'wë Fiora," the Satyr suddenly gasped, and Jaina repeated the words as best she could, as a benediction.

"You are Fiora, brave friend," she whispered, and the satyr Fiora bared her pointed teeth in a fierce smile, and then fell back, dead.

It was too much.

.

"It isn't fair!" Jaina exclaimed shrilly. She snatched her hand out from under the Warchief's and downed the potion in one gulp. Warmth spread throughout her weary body, a temporary relief only, though she would never tell him that.

"I want you to bring down this cave!" she said fiercely, turning to stare at Thrall with burning eyes. "Bury them together, one in peace and one imprisoned!"

He was quiet for a moment, and then nodded grimly. "A fitting housing," he said. His gaze shifted upwards, to the high-domed, glittering ceiling, and then swept sideways and down, taking in all of the magnificent cave. He held out his hands and said something in his guttural, powerful language, and she waited, anxious, heartbroken, wild.

An inarticulate roar was all the warning she got, before seven feet of wild-eyed Warchief tackled her to the ground and his scream blasted through her ears.

"GET US OUT – " the rest drowned in the ear-splitting shrieking of crystal shattering all around them.

Jaina flung her arms around his armored waist and screeched out the words of the spell. She was raw and worn down, the false strength of the healing potion all she had left, but even if she had to tear the magic out of her very soul, she was not going to die here!

The crystal around her neck pulsed, and she felt pain, but not her own. It wavered around her, a reddish mist she knew to be Thrall, shielding her as the cave collapsed. _Hold out,_ she prayed, and then - there! The magic fell into place, and she sent them far, far away from the tomb of Cynoval and brave, tragic Fiora.

***********************************

It was cold - shockingly so after the warmth of the cave - and wet and stinking of rotten vegetation and something that was only definable as decay. Jaina let go of Thrall's waist, and fell on her back into soft, slimy mud. She stared up, her field of vision half filled with his hunched body, half with the overcast sky of late afternoon.

"It's over," she whispered, in disbelief. Cynoval might not be dead, but for now, it could not plague them anymore. She was dead tired, felt like she had been turned inside out, but that was all. No nagging presence in her mind, no muttering distrust. She was free.

"The Elements were not happy about my request," Thrall said. "That place was holy." He looked away. There was an undercurrent of something she could not decipher in his voice, and it made her feel uneasy in a way that had nothing to do with demons or battles.

"We will restore it, later," she replied quietly. "For now, can there not be a small grace in an evil conquered?" He grumbled something too low for her to pick up, and helped her stand, still avoiding her gaze.

"Thrall, what is it - Light, don't move!" Jaina stared at the long spike of crystal protruded from his shoulder, having cut straight through the metal of his armor.

He grunted, and twisted his neck to look at the spike.

"It doesn't hurt that much," he said. "I think the armor halted it. Besides, didn't you say that you had no healing left?"

"No, but I have hands," she retorted, more in spite that anything else. Even in peak condition, she could hardly move a razor-sharp piece of crystal lodged in solid steel.

"Hmm - much more importantly: where are we?" Jaina looked around at the darkened trees.

"I have no idea, and I don't really care. I can fly without wings today."

He smiled. "Lady Proudmoore, it is an honor to have met you," he said formally, and then pulled her close in a bear hug. Laughing in pure joy, Jaina surrendered to the closeness.

"Impossible alliances!" she chortled. "But I am honored as well, Thrall, Son of Durotan." Together, bloody, beaten, victorious, they laughed until their throats were dry, and Jaina found it hard to breath.

"Oh, Light, my father would have me beaten for my foolishness." She wiped her eyes, and took on a serious mien. "This alliance – it is a good thing, Thrall. We cannot allow it to be broken."

"If there is one thing I have learned from this nightmare," the Warchief said, looking down at her gravely, "it is that we should know better. I have my sanity back, Jaina, and I do not mean to squander it."

"Good." Tired, overwhelmed, happy, Jaina leaned her cheek on his broad chest. Too late, she became aware, not so much what she was doing, for they were no closer than when he had carried her, but how it made her feel. Too late. Time can never be turned back, and truths, however unpleasant and impractical, have a tendency to worm their way to the surface.

Thrall pushed her away. Not roughly, not even close. A broad hand on her shoulder, then he simply stretched his arm.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"So am I," he replied. Yes, it was over. For now.


End file.
